


The Chess Player

by HerrKirschbaum



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: 1950s, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1950s, Alternate Universe - Beach, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Medical, Alternate Universe - Nazi Germany, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe - World War II, Germany, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Ocean, Post-World War II, Psychologists & Psychiatrists, Romantic Soulmates, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-10
Updated: 2019-03-30
Packaged: 2019-07-29 21:05:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 30,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16272341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HerrKirschbaum/pseuds/HerrKirschbaum
Summary: SPREETLITZ - In 1956, Levi Ackerman works as nurse in a sanatorium for the mentally ill at the Baltic Sea. During the first days of summer, a new patient, the former soldier Erwin Schmidt, arrives back from Russian captivity. Refusing to talk, his files lost, his past remains a mistery, but soon catches Levi's interest.I made aplaylist!UPDATES: 1st and 3rd Friday of the month.





	1. Chapter 1

 

My uncle used to say that the faith in the own invulnerability was the greatest gift of childhood. (My father had left my family shortly after I was born, and so the old Kenny became, with his sloppy, of disappointments and bitterness shaped character, what he could possible be to me).

Back then the true meaning of his words remained a mystery to me, but one day, so slowly, that I could impossibly notice the exact point, I understood. Even today, years later, I ask myself from time to time, when I eventually realised the full reality of my very own fragility.

Humans are strange creatures. If one doesn't properly take care of them, they will die soon. Nevertheless they can show an unexpected and stubborn strength that makes them triumph over the most terrible traumas. They tend to surprise, to live, when circumstances won't allow it, and to die, when there wouldn't be any real reason to do so. I know it, since I've seen it all, every possible and impossible constellation – and yet I live.

My Name is Levi Ackerman. Past winter I turned 30, and whenever I think of it, I realise once ore it's actually a miracle. For eight years now I've been working as a nurse in a sanatorium at the western German part of the Baltic Sea; I started there in 1948. Once built as hospital for people with tuberculosis, it now runs as psychiatric institute for such who can afford it, a multi-storey art deco house of white colour, with huge windows and large, comfortable rooms, through which we have a nice view of the ocean. I hadn't expected my life to lead me there, but here I am.

I kind of like my work, it's not that bad and contributes my fare share to society. There are not so many colleagues, but we work as a highly efficient team, and to some I consider myself to be quite close, a hand full of nurses and a couple of psychiatrists. Usually we stay here for a few weeks in a row, only to have seven days off afterwards.

I enjoy the routine that the everyday life around here offers, the scaffolding structure of the always same actions and tasks, occasionally interwoven by the change of our fellow patients, the salty air, the calm, the nature. The suffering of our patients though is just as sincere and honest as in the huge hospitals, yet the symptoms aren't that severe as if our patients would have to be transferred to the common psychiatries. It's both the luck of our patients as well as ours, cause therefore our work is quite easy and not overwhelmingly hard. Most of those who stay here are former soldiers, handicapped veterans and displaced persons – the list of reasons to stay here is just as long as repetitive.

The war might have ended about ten years ago, people refuse to talk about it, but on their minds it lives on. I myself am not free of that. I wish it to be different, but it can't be changed, I suppose, and so we just try to live with it.

It is a warm day in early summer 1956, the first for quite a while, when Erwin Schmidt arrives in our sanatorium, a former soldier, whose files have been lost on their way to us. He is just as handsome as mysterious. He is brought here by his sister, a tall, beautiful woman with bright, intelligent eyes and the aura of a strong mind, probably incorporating what he once must have been like. He was supporting himself on her, as I have seen it often in people who had to suffer through too much to keep up their head high.

According to the registration form about ten years older than me, and only returned from Russian war captivity months ago, his face, narrow and of characteristic features, is already the one of an old man. During the whole arrival procedure he did not answer the questions and directions of us nurses. It was as if his sister had brought us the empty shell of a man, whose soul had been lost years ago during the chaos of war. What should we do? It had probably really happened that way.

He moves into a room not far from mine, a bright, spacious place with ocean view, plain in its white colour in a way that lets the mind breath. We hope he would open up once he's had some time to settle down. But soon we realise that his condition is more severe than we had suspected it to be in the beginning.

Usually our patients soon participate in social activities after a short arrival period, spend their evenings with us in the salon, where they play cards, read, converse, or do anything else that is suitable to pass the time. Erwin, though, is different. He usually sticks to himself, remains silent and so unmoved, that his psychiatrist, Dr Zoe, in the meantime is tempted to diagnose him with catatonic schizophrenia.

Whenever I, who is in charge of his care, enter his room to serve him his food or offer him his medication, to put new sheets on his bed or to inquire for his health, he sits, always in the same strange posture, on his bed and stares into space. Neither he seems to notice me, nor to care. Blue eyes, lacking the energy I witnessed in his sister's, relentlessly gaze in the same direction, seeing things I can probably barely imagine.

He looks pitiful, the way he is preserving there in his white shirt and navy chinos, almost a child, that's been lost between people at a fairground, a bird, fallen from its nest, silently waiting to be found, but secretly not expecting it to happen anymore.

Luckily our house runs a fairly liberal profile – our head physician refuses to break arbitrary patients with all kinds of methods, as the hospitals tend to do. Instead we offer them the time they need, and from which we hope it will help them opening up to us.

Soon the other nurses, apart from Petra, declare Erwin mentally retarded and stop caring more then necessary for him. Fortunately he is able to take care of his basic needs by himself – and so all I have to do in the morning is to offer him today's outfit, which I neatly arrange on his table. Whenever I return little later to pick up his plate I find him fully dressed sitting on his bed in the usual posture.

Weeks pass, first one, then two, and when I take my leave after the third for a couple of days, I can't help but to think of him, sitting there in his room, all alone and detached from the world. His silence and the persistence of his inner withdrawal slowly start to catch my interest. I wonder what kind of person he might have been, back then, before the war happened to him. I ask myself all kinds of questions but can't answer any of them.

When I return to the sanatorium, I make the decision to take a closer look on him. We see each other on a more regular basis than the rest of the staff, but since he's not the only patient I have to take care of, our contact is limited to a couple of minutes during breakfast, lunch and dinner.

I start to talk to him whenever I step into his room. I had done this before as well, but from now on I talk relentlessly. I soon notice that the effect appears to be bigger the rougher I treat him – he is, after all, apparently still a soldier at heart. (At least that's what I suspect). These 'conversations' always take place the same way, and yet every single one of them is unique on their own.

“Herr Schmidt”, I greet him, normally around 7 am, after knocking and entering the room (of course he never asks me in, since he hardly shows any reaction). As usual he sits at the food end of his bed, wearing his light blue pyjamas, as if he had been waiting for me. “Already awake and ready for breakfast”, I proceed. “If only the other patients would be so reliable as you [1]. Most could take a leaf out of your book.”

I have long stopped hoping for an answer. Still, though, I keep blubbering back and forth. He is my cleanest patient, and that's something worth to be mentioned. Tidying his room can be done within minutes, caused by the simple fact that his radius is limited to the area around his bed.

As usual, I place the tablet with his breakfast on the room's single table, and start, after he has changed places in calm, flawless movements, to make his bed.

“I got this new theory about your past”, I always say, while fluffing up his pillow and blanket. “You're not really helping me out here, but you've most likely noticed yourself in the meantime. A little more cooperation would be nice – but as long as your sister keeps paying for you, you're in charge, I guess.”

It is our morning ritual. Nobody knows what kind of human he is. His sister, ten years younger than him and sent to the countryside during the war, is also not a big help, since she knows her brother only since his return from Russia.

And so I keep telling him a new version of himself day by day, versions that he, of course, leaves uncommented, as if he wouldn't consider it necessary to explain the secrets of his past to a simple man like me. Doing so – and I can say that without shame – I do quite a good job. After a couple of days he has collected a CV every elementary school brat would have killed for, has travelled the world as archeologist, tamed wild cats as an animal trainer, flew with hot air balloons and planes over the clouds and has sold a considerable amount of paintings as a gallerist in Paris. That all had happened before the war, and now nobody remembered it anymore, of course.

“You won't reveal it anyhow”, I keep telling him, “so I can just as well tell you in your place.”

All of this – my talking, my theories and thoughts, he endures most patiently, the face with the usual unmoved expression, eyes, as empty as if any life had vanished from them.

This morning, though – I had just told him the story of Erwin Schmidt, feared and famous deep sea pirate and buccaneer in the service of the English crown – I feel as if the expression on his face changes for the first time since his arrival. The change itself is hard to be noticed, but to me, who has carefully watched him over weeks, it's obvious. His lips look more relaxed and I feel as if I could see the hint of a smile around.

Apart from that I slowly start to notice that water has its very own effect on him. More often than not I find him sitting close to the window, gazing outside, while his hands are resting in his lab.

How long will it take until he tells me his story with his own words? Will this day ever come? I don't know.

I organise a wheelchair, and after a couple of days of constant encouraging, the sanatorium is ours. Whenever tea and cake are served in the salon, the weather is mild and the sun shining, we retreat outside on the veranda, from which we can watch the ocean. Whenever Erwin is sitting there, he appears very calm, his legs covered by a beige blanket, the hair tossed by the wind, his gaze as usual fixed on the horizon. Sometimes, when I bring him back into his room for dinner, I feel as if I could discover a smile on his lips.

He stays with us this way, and another couple of weeks pass.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

“I thought I would find you here”, Petra says one day, when I have withdrawn for a brief moment after an incredible hard day of work. There are those narrow, wooden stairs, painted white just as the rest of the house, leading down to the beach from the veranda. From time to time I sit there, usually on my own, lost in thoughts, sometimes with her.

“So?”, I ask, place cigarette between my lips and light it underneath my hand. After a deep breath I put it between my fingers. I bend my legs and let my elbows rest on my knees.

She nods, than sits down next to me, before she asks me for a cigarette. I give her one and light it for her. Together we smoke, listening to the sound of the waves, watching the surf. On days where the tide is high the water reaches the stairs, but not today.

“How is Herr Schmidt?”, she asks eventually and gives me a smile, bright as the sun. She is a pretty girl, slender, with red hair and brown eyes, very young, barely 20 years of age. In her gaze I discover a hunger for life that has been banished from mine a long time ago.

“This morning he has told me about his adventurous expeditions through he jungle of Sumatra”, I reply casually.

“He's speaking?”

“No.” I snicker. “He acts as taciturn and silent as ever, that old prick.”

“Have his files arrived by now?”

“I doubt they ever will. Who knows where they're being thrown around right now in this moment.”

“He was in Russian captivity, right?”

“According to his sister, yes. He returned early this year. He's been like this ever since.” I smoke. “Surprises me that he kept it up long enough in this condition to be send home.”

The reports of killed, frozen and starved soldiers are not foreign to me.

“What, do you think, brought him there?”, Petra asks, and I dislike her tone, even though I don't know why.

“He was a soldier of the Wehrmacht”, I reply and shrug. “They'd captured him somewhere and brought him away, I suppose.”

“Maybe.” She smokes for a while, until she suddenly raises her head, looking straight at me. “I don't know how you can stand this”, she says.

“What?”

“Most of our patients are former soldiers.” She reaches out for my wrist, eying my forearm for a second before she proceeds. “After all you had to endure-” She interrupts herself. From the corner of my eyes I can see that she, nervous as these topics make her, starts to nibble her bottom lip.

“You want to know why I spend my time here, wiping their butts?” I smoke and keep it longer in my lungs than usual before I let go. I place the package I had been holding in my hands up to this point under the rolled up right sleeved of my white nursing shirt. I extinguish the cigarette in a small preserving jar next to me. “First of all it is my job”, I say calmly, “and I like it.” With a sigh I gaze up into the cloudless summer sky. “My entire existence was hating and being hated, Petra. Shall it always be this way? I want a calm life, that's all. I don't want them to win.” A smirk runs over my lips. “There is honestly nothing I want less than that.”

She seems to understand and I'm glad.

 

During the following days the way I observe Erwin changes. Until then I had wicked my brains about his past for mere curiosity and entertainment. My made up stories did not only brighten up my days, but also those of my colleagues, and, maybe, even his. But more often than not I start to notice that I frown whenever I enter his room. The happy pictures that had filled my mind so far are more and more outrun by phantasies, which probably equal his endured cruelties more than my pure theories from the beginning. It takes a lot to make a grown man fall silent.

“I wonder what happened to you”, I whisper one afternoon when I bring him his lunch. Carefully I place my right hand on his golden hair. He doesn't move, but his hair feels soft and warm.

The following day Erwin receives a visit. It's his first one since his arrival. His sister and a man I had not the chance to meet before arrive shortly after lunch. The latter one calls himself Michael Zacharias, a huge man of almost two meters, serious features and an attitude that indicates calm strength. Handicapped by an amputated leg, but wearing a prothesis, he is supporting himself on a walking stick. One look is enough and I know: He as well has been a soldier once.

I accompany them to the veranda, where Erwin sits not far from the railing, watching the sea. After both have taken place I leave them alone, but remain close, just in case. I watch them, secretly delighted about the tender way they treat their friend, brother and former comrade. For a long while his friend keeps talking to him, and even though he doesn't receive an answer, their bond seems to be of a certain mutuality. From time to time he places a hand on Erwin's forearm, squeezing it gently, a thin smile on his lips.

 

“I used to be the calmest men of our troop”, Zacharias tells me while we return inside. He smiles sadly. “Who would have thought that this would change one day?”

“Do you have any idea what could have happened back then?”, I ask. “We know nothing about him. The files have been lost.”

“Unfortunately, no.” He points at his leg. “We lost each other during the last weeks of war when I stepped on a mine.”

“That's bitter.”

“It happens. You might as well know yourself. Once circumstances have separated old friends it's hard to find each other again.”

I nod, and my lips start to twitch. “I know this quite well, yes.”

"Did you serve?"

"No, I didn't. I wasn't considered appropriate, so to speak."

His gazes strikes my forearm, then the plate with my name and suddenly he turns very serious. “I see”, he mutters and looks at me, like people do when they hope to find traces of ones past on their face. Unmoved I reply his look, until he realises his impoliteness.

“Excuse me”, he sais, as if he is awakening from a dream. He then reaches for a bag he had been carrying with him for the time being. He hands me a book and a game of chess. “It's been quite a while since he had borrowed me these things – but I just couldn't return them earlier. He was the most skilful chess player I had ever the chance to encounter. Maybe one day you'll be so lucky to lose to him, who knows. Anyhow, please give him this in my name.”

I promise it and send them their way.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter. These were supposed to be two, but I didn't want to keep it so short. Therefore I keep changing the umber of chapters. It will be something about 10.  
> Erwin remains a mysterious man. Petra being around is highly appreciated as usual. Since LMYS I am really into their dynamic.
> 
> I've been quite melancholic lately, due to the season or some memories that are following me around - I don't know. Doesn't change a thing. 
> 
> Anyhow, I hope you liked the chapter a little. I'll see you around.


	3. Chapter 3

The book contains a collection of medieval tales, mainly stories about King Arthur and his knights. Have you ever seen yourself this way?, I wonder, when I leave through the old, used pages, as a knight fighting for the right thing? The cover itself is not in a good condition. The back of the book is already loose. Apart from that it must have been a beautiful, decorative edition once. The yellow shimmer on the pages indicates a gilt edge that might have graced the book once.

In chess play itself, though, is quite small, making it suitable for travels and transportation. The chessboard also works as a box, in which the pieces can be stowed away. Little roughnesses here and there suggest that it's been handmade over a long amount of time. I show it to Petra on the same evening, and to the other nurses during the upcoming days. They all appreciate its beauty. Only then I bring the book and the game upstairs to Erwin's room. I place it on his table, hoping that the presence of once beloved items could seduce him back to us. But just as usual, nothing happens.

In the evenings I now occasionally read to him from his book. It contains both the middle German as well as the modern versions, and so we begin with the authentic ones. Nonetheless I don't understand a single word, and if the pronunciation of mine equals the author's intentions 800 years ago is highly to be doubted. It doesn't take long and I switch over to the modern German translation. After that it grows more and more interesting. Together we live through endless journeys of adventure, watch knights losing and regaining their honour, become witnesses of spectacular duels and characters that can hardly be imagined anymore in our modern narrations. Sometimes there can nothing be done but to laugh, since the motives and narration techniques sometimes show their true age. And so it happens, that I, even though I enjoy the stories, sometimes extend the text by a comment of mine. I can't help it: Sarcasm is my primary coping strategy.

One evening it happens again. Erec, a knight who has lost his honour because he refused to leave the bed of his freshly wed wife and who is know struggling to regain it by running around, beating up other knights, scolds his wife. For some reason he considers her the only guilty one of their current situation and therefore orders her to be quiet, something she can't accept due to her honest and pure love. Again and again she warns him of upcoming dangers, and, surprise, she's always right. The only one who cannot understand this, of course, is Erec himself.

“What's it with men that they've always prioritising pride over common sense?”, I mutter and close the book. With a disparaging sound I place it on the desk. “He acts as if she'd forced him to sleep with her. Ridiculous. - I'm sorry, I must have slipped and fallen on the lady, and thereby we somehow got entangled. Twenty times. It's not my fault, though. - Jeez.”

I gaze over to Erwin and freeze. A thin smile shows on his lips. His eyes, which had been lacking every expression during the past weeks, show an amused look. Slowly, as if every movement was hard work, he takes the book from my hands and eyes the brown, decorated linen cover, like something that is dearly loved. He then raises his gaze and looks at me, his face serious again, but awake, more than I have ever seen it on him.

“Vanity”, he says and my breath stops. His voice sounds in such a low manner, so broken and raw, that for a moment I wonder if this was not just a mere illusion. I stare at him, my eyes widened, my lips slightly opened of surprise.

“Excuse me?”, I ask and hold my breath in the expectation of a further answer. But just as fast as it has appeared, the shine vanishes from his eyes. Instead of raising his voice once more, he lowers his gaze and sinks down in himself. Shortly after, I send him to bed.

On my way outside I inform Petra and Dr Zoe about this incident. The week after is my week off.

 


	4. Chapter 4

When I return to the sanatorium on the following Monday, I require for Erwin's condition right away, go through the usual documents and files, listen to stories of what has happened during my absence and make coffee. From said night on Erwin hasn't spoken to anyone else again, they tell me. Since I was not able to make my statement with absolute belief it seemed likely that I was mistaken, and he hadn't spoken at all. We would wait and see. All he needed right now was patience and faith – the key words of our sanatorium.

At least he is considered stable enough to start his therapy, mainly for his motor skills. He needs to move, and so they let him walk, paint, craft – all tasks he completes silently, but with good skills.

In the meantime I wait for the brilliance to return into his eyes, but it won't show. We hardly see each other during the first days after my return, since due to his changed schedule he is hardly around his room anymore. When I bring his meals, he's most likely still in treatment, and when I come to get the tray, he's already left again. Saturday and Sunday, on his days off, he receives visits from his sister and friend. They take him to town, and so his room remains strangely empty. Apart from that some of our patients leave, new arrive. There is much to be done. I spend my evenings over my patient's files.

When I enter his room the following Monday to change the sheets of his bed and clean everything, I stop in the middle of the room. The chess game may remain at its usual place, but it has been arranged properly for a session. The light coming from the window gently embraces the figurines, which throw long, slender shadows.

I walk over to the table and watch the pieces, every single one handmade with love, then, without thinking much about it, I take one of the white pawns and place it somewhere else. Then I proceed with my work.

Around evening I return, carrying the usual tray with Erwin's dinner, and discover, to my surprise, that he has answered my move. Not just my white pawn has changed his position, but one of the black ones as well. For a moment I eye the board with furrowed brows, before I suddenly remember the first visit of his friend.

“Maybe one day you'll be so lucky to lose to him, who knows”, he said.

Not knowing where it would lead me, I engage myself in this game. For a couple of days my heart started to beat faster, whenever I enter the room, silently hoping that Erwin has already made his move. When, one morning, I return for my usual duties, though, something has changed. Apart from only a few pieces the board has been cleared. I step closer, equally confused and surprised. Silently I wonder whether he has lost his interest (even though, in my opinion, I did quite a good job), but soon notice that his message is a different one.

My king is standing there, framed by my own queen and a bishop, a pawn and one rook. Slowly, piece by piece, I understand, this is a checkmate.

He had not even threatened my king before. He'd just ended the game. No struggle for victory, no endless evasive manoeuvres, as I usually knew them from chess. He had beaten me as much as possible.

On the evening of the same day our paths finally cross again, and in contrary to my usual routine I must act strangely taciturn. I can't get the game out of my head. Some of my colleagues consider Erwin an idiot, mentally retarded, or even worse, but now I know that he is nothing of that sort. Sunken in thoughts I take the tray with his dinner and return to the door. I am in a hurry; Petra wants to talk over the one or another matter with me considering the new arrivals.

“You shouldn't have moved the bishop.”

As if struck by lightening I stop. The voice incorporates a calm steadiness that runs through my spine, ernest, but without severity, warm, but without passion. Slowly I turn around. Still wearing the same white shirt and blue chinos I have given to him this morning, he sits on his bed and looks at me.

“What?”, I stammer. The moment of surprise is definitely his. He points at the chess board that is still remaining in the middle of the table.

“Your bishop. If you'd chosen the queen you would have secured the king's protection and furthermore his agility.” A thin smile shows on his lips. “Even though I must confess that I was secretly hoping for you to oversee the approaching checkmate. It's a beautiful game, isn't it? Friends of mine handed it to me during the last days of war.”

Still holding the tray in my hands, I stare at him.

“Do you realise what you're just doing right now?”, I ask him with a matte voice. Erwin raises his brows.

“Realise?”, he whispers in a surprised manner.

“Do you know which date we have?”

“The 23rd of July 1956.”

“Do you know where you are?”

“In the Baltic sea sanatorium of Spreelitz.”

“Yes.”

We look at each other, both our faces pale of surprise, even though caused by different reasons. Slowly, very slowly, understanding sneaks into his gaze.

“You must ask me, because I have remained silent for so long, am I right?” He clears his throat.

“Yes.”

“Very well.” He pauses for a moment and thinks about it. “You want to verify whether I was mentally present, or have just regained my consciousness after a long period of catatonia?”

I nod.

“Be unconcerned.” His smile remains, but it looks fatigued, his voice sounds raw. “Your readings have not remained a secret to me – your detailed commentaries included.” He then stands up, steps over to the table and takes one of the chess pieces. He eyes them, his gaze tired, whereas my cheeks begin to feel hot due to his comment. “Who would have thought I would be able to play chess again?”, he mutters more to himself than to me. Once more he clears his throat. Those few words after all these years might as well have been enough to make him hoarse.

“Wait here for me”, I say and notice with relief that my voice has found back its usual steadiness. “I must go and inform Dr Zoe. We'll continue this conversation afterwards.”

 


	5. Chapter 5

“But why now?”

We are sitting at the bottom of the stairs. It is the day ofter Erwin's wondrous return from the valley of the silent, and the lukewarm sea air is running over our faces and through our hair. The water is playing with the sand underneath out feet. As usual we smoke.

“Don't know.” I shrug and notice from the corners of my eyes that the wind has extinguished Petra's cigarette. I reach into my pockets and give her light. “Guess sometimes people grow tired of shutting their mouth all the time.”

“After all these years.” With a sound of awe Petra leans back, supporting herself on her hands, gazing up in the blue sky. “Do you think one can forget the sound of his own voice?”

“Who knows. When he talked to me for the first time he fell silent again right away. Maybe it was because of that.”

“Maybe, yes.”

“He acts more reluctant towards Dr Zoe, but eventually she managed it as well to get the necessary informations out of him.” I sigh. “You should have seen her afterwards, Petra, as if easter and christmas were happening the same day.”

“When I came across the office earlier I could hear her singing from inside.”

“She's been doing that the whole morning.” I click my tongue. “That woman has no life next to her work.”

“But you do?”

I give a humming sound and Petra starts to laugh.

“Well, it was worth the effort, wasn't it?”, she says, “his condition got better, so it seems. When he keeps talking he'll be cured before we'll know it.”

“Let's hope so.” I hesitate, play around with the cigarette between my fingers, tab against its end to get rid off the ashes. “But when their strength returns patients tend to do the most idiotic things.”

“Yes.” No need to say it out loud. We both know what we're talking about. Suicides happen. Some have said goodnight to us with a broad smile on their lips, only to be found dead in their rooms by the morning. We are a sanatorium, not a psychiatric hospital, and especially no prison – our patients are here on their own terms. Even the tightest net has its holes. Who wants to slip through will manage it somehow – sometimes with less, sometimes with more effort.

“He appeared tired while speaking”, I say. “As if he had slept for years, only to regain his consciousness now.” If I think about it, his voice carried a matte tone, as if he hadn't known anymore how to use it properly.

“He and you are quite alike, don't you think?”

I pull a face. “What?”

“Sometimes you have the same expression when you look at the ocean”, she smiles, as if trying to ease the harshness of her words by a friendly attitude. “Sometimes you as well appear as if all the strength has suddenly vanished from you – like a sailing ship with the wind stopping out of the blue.”

“A sailing ship?”

“Hm, hm.” She leans forward and pulls her knees toward her chin. With a silent sigh she places her head upon. “You are both still wandering underneath the shadows of your past, no offense. It's probably just natural. I'm too young and above all from the countryside, everything I can remember are tanks and American chocolate.”

She's not from here.

“Maybe”, I mutter and extinguish the cigarette in the small jar next to me. “Who knows.”

 

In this night I dream. Pictures I have seen countless times before flash in front of my eyes, more a memory than a dream, always the same, the way it has burned its way into my brain back then, in January '45. Just as cattle we had been cooped up, too many people in train wagons way too small, and just as cattle they push us down the way, further, further, through the snow, away, just away from the approaching front, cut across country, via paths, streets, meadows, forests, it doesn't matter, it doesn't make a difference, we don't have a sense for the surrounding landscape, we're walking corpses on a path to the unknown, aware that not even death can be any worse than what lies behind us. There are screams, fresh and powerful, cutting through the air like ice, gunshots nearby and far away, and, again and again, the sobbing sounds of those who are still able to feel.

We are the rest of an institutional body that has almost been wiped out. One day they'll say: Less than 60 000 marched on, 7000 were left behind – and of those as well not everybody survived. But the chance is there, it's real, and we dare to hope, we must, how else would we succeed? I don't know.

I feel as if my own body has grown strangely unknown in this cold, limbs, frozen stiff, swing numb and uselessly back and forth. My face is immovable, my eyes water due to the sharp wind, skin, thin as paper and without fat underneath, covers my bones. Farlan and I once joked the Nazis should hand us two pairs of sticks, so we could finally found the camp's first human xylophone orchestra – every rip forces its way through our skin, they can easily be counted. But Farlan is not with me; our ways separated not too long ago, and every child here knows that nothing will be reunited once parted, it's just as simple as that.

I place one foot in front of the other, form a part of this pitiful ant trail forcing its way through the snowy landscape. The cap I'm wearing hardly protects my cropped head of the cold, and the other parts of my striped pyjamas as well flap, way too wide, around my starving body. Nevertheless I don't shiver – my body doesn't want to go through the necessary effort anymore, so it seems; why signalising something that cannot be helped anyhow?

Sometimes I can see people falling to the ground next to me, in this awful silent manner in which one does not want to picture death. But death isn't dramatic, no, it's inconspicuous, most of the time, striking while passing by, almost banally. If they're lucky, someone yells them back on their feet. Mostly, though, I can only hear a gunshot nearby, and the matter is done.

At one point we rest, and I know, it would have been better to keep going, forever if it needed to be. I withdraw behind a tree and sink against its stem, not close by the group, reason enough to execute me, but I couldn't care less in this moment. I want to be left alone. It's all I'm longing for. Being alone, even if it's just for one brief moment. Once sunken to the ground I know that I will not get up again. I'm exhausted, the bag around my shoulders is empty, has been empty way too long. 

Little later steps sound not far away on the snow covered ground, in this energetic, tight manner that has long become impossible for my people. Two soldiers lively discuss trivialities, women, something of that sort, and my heart starts beating faster. They probably want to step out, it's only a matter of time before they discover me and finish it all, me, my life, my history.

The steps fall silent, and the conversation stops. I don't need to look up to know that the mood has changed. They step closer to me, one of them yelling I should get the fuck back on my feet, dog that I were, a miserable, filthy dog, but I don't move. The sound of cloth being pushed away, then a metallic clicking. One of them is unlocking his pistol. Something in me knows that I'm the target of her barrel.

Crackling branches. More steps in the distance. Once again someone yells. A third voice, not far from us.

“What is the meaning of this?”, someone wants to know, without doubt the voice of a soldier, but higher of rank, I can hear it, uncompromising, used to leading and giving orders.

“He refuses to stand up, Unterscharführer.”

The third one states the number that's written on my uniform and that's more to me than my name could have ever been. “Get on your feet”, he adds, in a loud and hard manner.

I can't. The soldier addresses his subordinates. “You two will return right away and take the lead. We're leaving. If the Russians find us here, they'll skin us alive, and god knows, they have every reason to do so.”

“What about that bastard over there?”

“I'll take care of him.”

“But-”

“Insubordination? Is that what you intend?” Tense silence. Muttered excuses. Thereupon leaving steps.

I sink into myself. After the torment of the past years it's a shame that even this must take so long. Nazis, they're like dogs, they can't have the other get the biggest bone, no, everyone is greedy to lay their own hands on the dirtiest piece of work.

With my last strength I raise my head. Green and brown schemes are everything I can see, stars sparkling in front of my eyes. The soldier sinks on his knees, grabbing my shoulders – but his hands are soft. 

“Can you hear me?”, he asks me. Somewhere between then and now the harshness in his voice has gone missing.

“Yes.”

He lets me go. Again he starts to look for something in his equipment, then presses something against my lips. I open my mouth.

“Eat this, come on.” A taste spreads upon my tongue, warm, tender, sweet as childhood days. Chocolate? It seems unreal, but there is no doubt. I had forgotten that something could taste so good. “You haven't come this far to die now”, the soldier proceeds, “go ahead.” He places something hard in my hands. Struggling I look at it – provisions. Bread, crackers or something similar, I can't tell. Mechanically my hands move toward my mouth, I bite, chew, swallow, in proceeding speed, until I have to slow myself down, in order not to devour it all in one piece. Eventually he hands me his water bottle. I press it against my lips as if my life depended on it. My life depends on it.

“Why?”, I ask, after handing him back his bottle. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because we're human. I didn't volunteer for the SS, you hear me? Tell your friends that. I've grown up with your kind, played with them on streets as a child.” He talks hastily, but then interrupts himself. We don't have much time. Once more he reaches for my shoulders. It feels wrong. During long months, maybe years, nobody has treated me this way. “When did they deport you?”

“Early '43.”

“The Russians are right behind us. One, two more weeks, it can't take any longer. That's nothing compared to two years. Keep it up.” With these words he takes out his pistol, points it at the sky and gives one single shot. He then puts it away and raises. “Good luck.”

Thereupon he disappears in the woods. I look after him, one, two minutes only, before I struggle back on my feet. Good luck, he says? - Deep inside we both know that soon he will need it more than I do.

 


	6. Chapter 6

On the evening of the following day I find Erwin in the salon and that's new. I don't lose my status as a nurse once the sun has disappeared behind the horizon, but it slightly fades. I serve as a contact person, apart from that though I appear more cheerful and accessible – at least I hope that.

I discover him not far from the other patients in an armchair close to the fireplace. The chess play is resting on his knees, and he is holding it with both his hands, like a boy who is expecting his presents at christmas night. Not long and he notices my gaze.

“Levi.” It is the first time that he calls me by my name. He is still speaking with a low voice, yet during the upcoming days it would gain more strength, I'm sure. With a smile he stands up.

“Good evening.” I reply his smile. “Not in your room? Do I sense a sudden thirst for adventure, Herr Schmidt?”

“So to speak.” His eyes are resting on mir, filled with curiosity. It is noticeable, yet easy to understand, how much he is fixing himself on me. According to Dr Zoe he still acts taciturn and reluctant toward the rest of the team. “You appear rather absentminded today.”

He is not wrong with that. This morning I'd almost forgotten to cover his pillow with a new sheet after removing the old one, and around noon the tray with his lunch had almost slipped out of my hands.

“I had a bad dream”, I reply.

“I see.” Erwin suggests a nod. “I was worrying. It's not like you to act this way, you know? Normally you appear to have it all under control.”

“I'm fine.” It's nice of him to ask. “But it's not your responsibility to worry about me”, I add as friendly as possible.

“I know. You work here, and I'm your patient.” He hesitates. “I preferred to do it nevertheless. Just like that.”

“It's kind, but as I mentioned, not necessary.”

Thereupon the smile on his lips fades slightly. He looks at the chess game in his hands, then once more gazes over to me, offering it like a present.

“I was hoping you would play with me again”, he says.

“What about the other patients?”, I ask and point with a volatile hand movement on the surrounding people. “I'm on duty – we would only be interrupted.”

“I don't mind.” His eyes follow my gesture. “As you can see, everyone is preoccupied otherwise.” He is right. Most of the others are playing cards, some of them are talking about this and that, some ladies knit, some read. “You're my last hope.”

I can see a certain waggishness in his eyes. Is it possible? Can it be? A few days earlier there was only the wasteland of longterm imprisonment and deprivation speaking out of them.

“I'll play with you”, I say, and my face turns serious. “But I want you to answer me a questions, should you win.”

“A question?” His left eyebrow is raised slightly.

“Yes. Do you think you can take this gamble, Herr Schmidt?”

For a while he seems to think about my words, then nods, and for a second I feel as if the hint of a smile would make his lips twitch. I reach out for a chair and pull it close, then sit down. Next to the armchair there is a small table made from dark wood. Erwin places the chess play there and arranges the pieces. Once more he choses black. Since had won the previous party, he leaves the first move to me.

Soon our conversation fades into an atmosphere of tense concentration. Every move has been carefully thought through and planned, and yet it doesn't prevent us from losing some of our men to the enemy. Nevertheless I'm right with my prophecy: Colleagues and patients interrupt us, inquire, ask for everything and nothing, even summon me somewhere else. Twice we have to interrupt the game, since I'm needed upstairs, but whenever I return to the salon, Erwin is sitting at his usual place, smiling the most patient of smiles.

Of course he wins. It only takes him a hand full of movements and my king breaths out his life. With a heavy breath I lean back against the rest of my chair.

“You shouldn't have”, Erwin starts, yet with a displeased sound I cut him off.

“Please, spare me”, I moan and he starts to smile again. I don't know what's so funny about my loss – he has done nothing less than to massacre my people. Making a serious face I bend over the table and flick his king from the board “There you go”, I say and offer him a look filled with emphasis and insubordination, “take this.”

He raises his brows. “Well, if that wasn't a sneak attack.”

“Well noticed.”

“You're not a bad loser, are you?”

“Not really.”

“Good.”

We smirk at each other over the chess board.

“So?”, he then says and my smile disappears.

“So what?”

“Your question.”

I had almost forgotten about it. For a brief moment I eye him silently, searching for the right words.

“How long have you remained silent?”, I ask eventually.

Thoughtfully he bows his head to the side. “Two or three years, probably.”

“Probably?”

“Forgive me, but I didn't have my calendar at hand.” He indicates a smile, but it seems like a facade. I nod.

“Why did you break it just now?”

“Didn't you say you wanted to ask me only one question?”

“Maybe. Will you answer me anyway?”

Silently he starts to rearrange the chess game. Skilful fingers close around the wooden pieces, as if he feared to break them otherwise.

“There was something I wanted to tell you”, he replies suddenly and fixes his gaze on mine. “That's it.”

“That's it?”

“Yes.” He places the pieces in the box and closes it. For a long while he doesn't say anything. A sigh leaves his throat. “You know”, he proceeds, and his voice is sounding more and more low, more and more matte, “I tried to commit suicide, back then, in Russia. Couldn't live with the memories. Must have been two or three years after the war had ended. Of course the Russians wouldn't allow me to die. They even gave me extra rations to make sure I would live, even though it was a fight making me eat. The others, though, lived miserable lives. This way they forced me to watch my friends and comrades die. Can you imagine how it feels like when those closest to you die in front of your eyes, and there is nothing you can do?”

“Yes”, I whisper and my throat tightens.

“I'm sorry.” With a sigh Erwin raises his gaze and looks out of the window. “In the end there was simply no one left I knew, so I fell silent.”

“Do you think one can forget the sound of his own voice?”, I ask.

He smiles cautiously. “Maybe. It might depend on the person.”

“Have you ever forgotten yours?”

His smile broadens. “No”, he says and his voice sounds very kind. “Never.”

 


	7. Chapter 7

For a while we go on like this. Around evening, after dinner, I find Erwin sitting in the salon, in his usual armchair nearby the fireplace, holding the chess game in his hands. Whenever he sees me, he challenges me right away – and I agree, after the always same discussions over the for and against, with increasing cheerfulness. It is a never changing dialogue we exchange, a never changing ritual, and we both enjoy it in a way children play with each other, pure, honest and beautiful, even though without any deeper meaning hidden underneath.

This way we spent some evenings with each other, talk about this and that, joke occasionally, laugh and listen, and win, bit by bit, mutual sympathy, trust and understanding. He wins mostly, but from time to time I can also claim a victory. Probably he wants to make sure that I won't grow tired of him – to find new playmates becomes more difficult with age. Whatever his reason might be, I don't care.

We hardly talk about our past, since during our nightly meetings it appears to us dull and far away. Whenever we sit, facing each other, I feel as if I grew roots in the present moment, as if there was nothing more important than the here and now. Everything that had been – or would be – looks pale compared to the growing synchronicity that fulfils our togetherness. It doesn't remain a secret towards the other patients and staff members, and before we know it, a cluster of people starts gathering around us, whenever we start our evening ritual.

Erwin seems to get better, not just in matters of chess, but also in matters of health. Sometimes it is as if an inner curtain opens, enabling me to divine the man he was before life happened to him, energetic, straightforward, with a fine humour and lots of charisma.

It's a summer night as any other. The sound of crushing waves sneaks in from outside, of wind and storm, the air tastes salty. Nevertheless it is still warm; some of our patients carry around a fan.

It's not our first party we've been fighting out this evening. Even our last visitor, Dr Zoe herself, has, yawning and covering her mouth with her hand, taken her leave and gone upstairs.

From time to time we interrupt our game and exchange a few words. Erwin acts more taciturn than usual and kind of absentminded. With the night growing darker and darker the victories increasingly switch over to me.

Sometimes his gaze seems to rest longer than usual on my forearm. But whenever I notice it, he rapidly looks at the board. I don't ask him, but cannot help a certain feeling of suspicion.

In the end he takes his rook, then stops and returns it, after a period of silence, back on its former place, with a heavy fatigue sigh. I can see that something's going on inside of him. His eyes wander back and forth, his brows furrowed thoughtfully. He doesn't look at me.

“Is something the matter?” By now he seems to be more of a friend than a patient. I am aware that this is not appropriate, yet our relationship has grown naturally and without much effort.

“No”, he replies reluctantly, as if every word caused him physical pain. “It's just – can I ask you something personal?”

“You've been asking me personal stuff all along.” I furrow my brows. “What's it?”

“What's your last name?”

“Ackerman”, I reply, “why?”

Thereupon Erwin nods, as if he would now understand it all. Eventually he looks at me and I twitch. His eyes almost pierce me. “You're jewish”, he says apparently calm, but I feel as if the ground underneath me broke in two. We stare at each other, until I can manage to nod.

“Yes”, I reply, “you got a problem with that?”

He shakes his head.

“So why are you asking then?”

Thereupon he hesitates for a long time. Inside of me grows a diffuse feeling of uneasiness. It has never meant anything good to be questioned about my religious background. In the end he approaches, reaching out for me over the table. Before I can withdraw myself his fingers close around my wrist, careful, as if they were holding a raw egg.

“May I?”, he asks in a low, almost begging voice. This time I'm the one who nods. He pulls my arm closer, and I can't do anything but to push my chair towards him, until I sit right next to him. The way he holds me, he rather holds my hand then my wrist, and my fingers touch his. My heart starts beating faster.

His eyes wander over my forearm. A 6-digit number has been tattooed there once, companion, stigmatisation, remembrance for my lifetime. The fingertips of his remaining hand gently slide over my skin and leave a slight prickling feeling. Trembling inside, I look at his face. The bewilderment that slowly starts to show there takes my breath.

“You've been there”, he whispers.

“Yes.” Pictures arise in me. I fight them down with the strength of an infantry regiment.

“But you're alive.”

“Obviously.” I lower my gaze. “It's not because of me, though, if you're suggesting that.” Mere luck, nothing else.

Whatever my answer releases in him, it must be overwhelming. From one to the other moment he lets my hand go. He bows down, covering his face with the right hand, while supporting himself with his elbow on the table. I fight down the impulse to stand up and inform Dr Zoe.

“Herr Schmidt”, I whisper. Everything about him tells me from the amount of self-restraint he must summon in order not to burst into tears in front of me. His Adam's apple wanders up and down, his shoulders tremble. I don't know which pictures are flashing up in front of his inner eye, but they can hardly be beautiful. He, who has grown more cheerful and stabile day by day during the past two weeks, is collapsing into pieces right in front of me. I place my hand on his shoulder. “Calm down”, I go on, “please.”

After a while he raises his head and looks at me. His eyes are red, the gaze of a human who's been devoured by regret ever since, slowly but steady, nagging unrelentingly.

“I was a soldier”, he struggles to say.

“I know”, I reply as calm as possible.

“I killed people.”

“Yes.”

“Even jews, like you.” His eyes wander over my face, then his voice breaks. As if fighting he pulls a painful face, before he once more buries it in his hand. “Oh god”, he whispers, a long sound of torment, buried right away in upcoming sobs. They are dry and not healing, no tears accompany them.

Pain, too huge to be expressed by words, forces its way out, and I watch him, too surprised by this twist, to be of any help. Something inside of me wants to ease his suffering, but I don't know how. It is my existence that has caused our mutual understanding of both our roles over the intervening run of history that has pushed him into the abyss, I'm convinced of that.

“Wait here.” Gently I squeeze his shoulder and stand up. “I'll go and wake Dr Zoe.”

 

She gives him a sedative and sends me out of the room, orders me to get Petra, whereas she keeps talking to Erwin in a comforting voice. Without any further word I do as I'm being told. Afterwards I wander around the hallways of the old house, without destination, deeply agitated and filled with uneasiness, before I find myself, as I've found myself so often before, at the bottom of the old stairs. The warm and moist night air strikes my face, but I don't notice it. Numbly I smoke one cigarette after another, before the emptiness of the package ends my urge to run away.

My knees pulled against my chest I remain, my elbows resting on my knees. From time to time I let my fingers nervously run through my hair, turn around and look up to the sanatorium. There is light in Erwin's window. Finally it turns dark. Little later I hear the sound of steps on the wooden stairs. It's Petra.

“Can I have a cigarette?”, she asks.

“Just smoked the last one.”

“But the package was half full this afternoon.” She eyes me with emphasis. “Levi.”

“Let me be.” I bite my bottom lip and let my shoulders sink. “How's he?”

“He's sleeping now.” With a sigh she leans back, supporting herself on her hands. “Was a good piece of work to get him into his room.” She suggests a smile. “He didn't stop asking for you.”

“What did Dr Zoe say?”

“Re-traumatisation, probably. He's remembered something terrible that has happened to him in his past, but I guess you know yourself.” She nods, as if she wants to underline her words. “Do you have any idea what it could have been?”

“He noticed the tattoo on my forearm”, I reply with a matte voice. Turning my gaze toward the pitch-black sea, I sigh. Next to me Petra moans.

“What a mess”, she says. “He might as well will get assigned to a different nurse from now on.”

“Probably.” I try not to let my displeasure show. “Has it been decided yet?”

“No. But she indicated something like that.”

I do not reply. In the background I can hear the roaring sound of the breaking waves.

“Maybe it's better this way”, Petra proceeds carefully. “Apparently you've been quite close during the past days and weeks.” Too close is what she means and I nod.

 


	8. Chapter 8

 

This night I barely sleep. The conversation, the rapid change from happiness to sheer desperation, the confession of Erwin's killings won't leave me alone. My arm resting on my forehead, lying on my back, the body merely covered by a thin blanket due to the summer's heat, I stare into the night. My thoughts wander around, restlessly, but without destination.

In another life we might have faced each other as enemies. Another life wouldn't have been necessary. If we shared a past, it would have been this way, no doubt.

I try to picture him in a dirty green Wehrmacht-uniform, with these wide pants and the sharp hat, the metal eagle on it's front. I struggle to do so. In our conversations, no, since his arrival, he has always appeared so gentle and friendly that-

Someone like him has killed? People like me?

Of course I knew that he was a soldier, that he has only returned from Russian captivity. Nobody was sent there without reason, and yet – only now, after I have witnessed the horror about his own actions in his face I understand what guilt must be resting on his shoulders.

We have so many soldiers amongst our patients, many of them share the same fate, although they act in different ways, they usually refuse to talk about it, won't take any responsibility. Erwin is the first soldier I meet who is not like that.

Deep inside I think about that hell-like march through ice and snow, the countless fellow humans, who have been shot right underneath my eyes in sheer arbitrary. Has he been one of them? Is it possible to regret something one has once committed so eagerly? Nobody has forced them to pull the trigger, at least as far as I know.

With these thoughts I slid over in a shallow, restless sleep.

 

The following day the expected happens. I am summoned to Dr Zoe. There wouldn't be a mistake as far as I'm concerned, she and some other physicians tell me, but due to the current circumstances it would be recommended from a medical point of few, to transfer Erwin's care to a different nurse for the time being. It would be better to avoid such break downs in the future, for obvious reasons. The face serious and mask-like unmoved, I agree with those present and thereby seal Erwin's fate as well as mine.

Erwin's condition, though, gets worse. The talkativeness which has characterized him during the past weeks, fades within only a few days. In the end he falls silent once more. The shine disappears from his eyes. Occasionally I see him sitting in the salon, but most of the time he spends in his room. No coaxing of the other nurses helps, even the veranda, his former favourite space, is being avoided. Heavy nightmares befall him. During the night he wakes up, screaming and covered in sweat, talking woolly, talking Russian, then falling silent again. They give him sedative after sedative. It's discussed whether he should be transferred to a psychiatric hospital. I, who am still reading his files every night, visit Dr Zoe in her office and convince her otherwise. Therefore he remains with us.

Slowly he gets better. His dreams fade. In the end they reduce his medication and loosen the contact ban – he has not stopped asking for me.

The following night we come across each other in the salon with a smile. As usual, he is sitting not far from the fire place, the wooden box on his lap.

“Herr Schmidt.”

“Good evening.”

Our gazes meet. It calms me down to discover a certain liveliness in them, and his voice sounds as calm and gentle as ever. Nevertheless, though, he appears fatigued. I can see dark circles underneath his eyes.

He hands me the game. I sit down on the nearby chair and place it on the table between us. Wordlessly I open it and take out the pieces, before I start to arrange them in their usual order on the board.

From time to time I look at the pieces, but only in a volatile manner.

“Where did you buy the game?”

“I didn't buy it”, he replies.

“Oh?”

“Friends of mine handed it to me during the last days of war.”

“A present. Where did they get it from, Herr Schmidt?”

“I don't know. But please, call me Erwin. I feel old when people only call me by my last name.”

“Erwin?” In my thoughts, I've always called him this way, yet I hesitate. Suspiciously I let my gaze wander around, alternately watching patients and staff. What would they think of me, would they notice? What would be the consequences be this time?

“I don't think this is a good idea”, I say eventually, but with the necessary amount of cautiousness. “I also would prefer it otherwise, but-”

“You want to keep your professional distance.” Erwin nods. “I understand.”

“It's too noticeable”, I reply. “That's all.”

“Really?” I can hear that he doesn't believe me.

“Yes. I will call you this way on the day of your departure, if you wish, but not before.”

“On the day of my departure?”

“Yes.”

He smiles, and I reply.

“Do you want to get rid of me?”, he jokes.

“Get well soon, that's all I ask of you.”

With these words I place the game in the middle of the table. Since our last party has been ended due to his breakdown, I offer him the first move. For a while we play silently, and the usual audience soon gathers around us, cheer for us, comment our moves, whisper possible strategies to each other. At some point I discover Petra. She is standing in the doorframe, her arms folded behind her back, grinning. When I look over the next time, she's disappeared.

We both act especially taciturn tonight. Only when the last person has left the salon our hearts and minds open up and we grow more and more talkative.

“I'm glad that you spend your evening with me after all”, Erwin says eventually, in the middle of his move.

“Why shouldn't I?”, I reply, thoughtfully. Resting my chin on my hand, I'm dealing with other problems right now. Pawn to E3 or knight to A7? “That you've been with the Wehrmacht is something I knew beforehand.” I snort, as if I'd just made a joke. “In fact that was the only thing we knew about you.”

“Why?”

“Because your sister hardly knows you and your files never arrived here. We requested further investigations, but hell knows where they went.” I shrug and make my move. Erwin though nods slowly, heavy with meaning. He acts more serious than usual, probably the aftertaste of the previous days. He may be smiling occasionally, yet there is a certain sadness inhabiting his eyes during this night.

The game ends – Erwin wins. As usual, he tries to explain my fatal mistake to me, and as usual, I cut him short. We laugh. I then arrange the field for another game.

“I will ask you the same thing you asked me the other night”, he says suddenly, even before I can make my first turn. With furrowed brows I look up and gaze at him over the table.

“What do you mean?”

“Should you win, I would like to ask you the one or another question.”

Something about his voice makes me shiver. His face, calm but with silent determination, makes me tremble within my heart. I know where this is going, but I try to ignore the thought.

“I can't promise you blindly”, I reply.

“I'm aware. I wouldn't be angry should you choose to refuse.” He smiles, and it looks sincere.

Whether he willingly lets me win this evening, or if I win by myself, is something I will most likely will never be able to say with certainty. Twenty minutes after we've started, though, his king is taken prisoner by me.

“Check mate”, I say and my cheeks start to tingle in excitement. With a satisfied grin I lean back in my chair. “Maybe you got to hand over your crown to me soon. Even though Herr Zacharias mentioned that you're such a gifted player.”

“The most gifted of our company – but one battle doesn't win a war”, Erwin replies with calm amusement. “Particularly as your victory is mine as well.”

Only now I remember his demand before and my smile fades. Knowing that this would mark my last victory for tonight, I place the pieces inside the box and close it with small metal hooks.

“What you want to ask me”, I mutter in the meantime, “surely will take a wile, I suppose?”

“That depends on you.”

I nod. Afterwards I stand up and head towards the veranda door. “What are you waiting for?”, I ask without turning around.

“Where do you go?”

“Outside. We have a full moon and there is not a single cloud to be seen.” My hands close around the door knob. “It won't work without cigarettes, so follow me.”

 


	9. Chapter 9

Outside I take a deep breath, and the salty air fills my lungs. A strange feeling of excitement fills my chest. I take out a small package of cigarettes from underneath my rolled up sleeves, take out two, and offer one to Erwin.

“I don't smoke”, he begins reluctantly, but I only raise my eyebrows.

“You'd be the first soldier I'd have met in all these years.”

He only laughs and takes the cigarette. I light it for him, and for the time of one deep breath it grows strangely silent; only the sound of waves can be heard from behind. It is low tide. The sky is clear, but the moon is so bright that the stars around can only be guessed.

“It's really beautiful here”, Erwin suddenly whispers next to me. One of his hands is resting on the white railing. “Would I be living here, I'd never return to the city.”

“We're the Magic Mountain of the north”, I reply in an unmoved manner. A strong breeze extinguishes my cigarette, forcing me to relight it with my hands shielding it from the wind. “You should come here in winter. When the air is cold and clear you can even see the milky way.” I hesitate. “But you probably had enough cold, clear air in Russia, I suppose.”

“Indeed I had.”

“Where you're from anyway? You don't speak in dialect.”

“Oldenburg.”

“Quite a nice place, it's said. I've never been there myself.”

“It is.” He loosens his gaze from the horizon and looks at me. “How about you?”

“Prague.”

Thereupon Erwin gives a slight, short sound of laughter. “You're from Prague and call Oldenburg nice?”

“Who cares?”, I mutter, holding my cigarette between lips, shrugging. “Nobody's there anymore to make it feel comfortable – and a bunch of stones doesn't yet make it a home.”

“You're right.”

“Yes, I am.”

He's dancing nervously back and forth around the topic, and it starts getting on my nerves. In shorter and shorter periods I smoke, before I throw the cigarette into the jar. With his wide awake, clear eyes Erwin watches me doing so. I can't say what's going on in him during these moments; I'm too much preoccupied with myself right now.

“What now?”, it suddenly bursts out of me. I can't bear it any longer. Once more I reach for the package, once more I put a cigarette between my lips and light it. “Do you want to stand here until sunrise?”, I mutter.

“No”, Erwin replies in a low voice and smiles, but it's mere politeness, while smoking himself. I was right: He's smoking on the lungs and it doesn't seem to bother him. “But I can see you dislike it.”

“So?”

“I'm wondering whether I should ask at all.”

“You won't know for sure if you draw in your horns”, I reply casually and gaze at the pitch-black sea. Why I am suddenly acting in such a defiant manner? Who knows.

Again we fall silent, but the tabac slowly starts to have an effect. A certain numbness fills chest and forehead, whereas my nervousness slowly fades.

“You cared so much for me”, Erwin suddenly says and offers me a smile through the darkness. “When I refused to talk. You told me lives and versions of myself I couldn't have ever made up on my own.”

From the corners of my eyes I look over to him and furrow my brows. So in the end, he had heard it all? Throughout the weeks? Apparently he hasn't forgotten anything.

“Which one did you like the most?”, I ask in a laconic manner and he hesitates for a second, as if he was thinking intensively.

“The one of the adventurer who found the Titanic's wreck by accident and therefore was too surprised to write down the coordinates.”

A have to laugh, but only reluctantly. “Yeah, that was a good one”, I mutter and continue to smoke. “And quite dumb of you too, I must say.”

“Yeah. All these years and I'm still getting upset whenever I think about it. I wonder if I'll ever be able to find it again?”

“Time's on your side, that's for sure.”

Once more we laugh. Erwin rolls the butt of the cigarette back and forth between his fingertips, before he reaches for the jar and places it there. When he straightens up again, the cheerfulness has vanished from his gaze.

“I would like to hear your story”, he says and suddenly the easiness that has filled the air disappears. With a short gesture he points at my forearm.

“How will you know I'm not making this story up?”, I reply hesitantly. “Just as I made up yours.”

“I won't.” Our gazes meet. “But I trust you.”

“You trust – _me_?”

“Yes.” He's all smiles. “I have no idea, why. You were good to me, without expecting anything I return, that's probably the reason.”

“Why do you care?”, I ask. “One jew more or less who survived, what's the difference? You shouldn't ask for the living, you should ask for the dead.”

“Isn't that what I'm doing?” He fingers slide over the white railing while he steps closer to me. “One cannot think the living without the dead. If you decide to remain silent about them they will die for sure. Believe me, I know what I'm talking about. I've done it myself long enough.” With a sigh he stops in front of me. “Can I have another cigarette?”, he asks. Of course I do. Moments later he's been supplied and smokes.

“Forgive me”, he remarks in the end, “I must sound pathetic.”

“A little.” We look at each other and cannot refrain from grinning. Eventually I sit down on one of the wooden deckchairs which have been lined up around the veranda.

“I'm half jewish, if you want to know precisely”, I begin. Erwin, who is still standing at the railing, comes over and sits down on one of the opposite chairs. “It was a mixed marriage.”

“Who was-”

“My mother. The marriage was divorced later, but in the end there was no necessity to do so, since it would have been annulated anyway. My father left us in 1933.”

“After Hitler's seizure of power?”

I nod. “He had been sympathising with them for a while. Basically he just disappeared and never contacted us again. Of course.” A bitter smile inflames my lips. “Would have been quite inconvenient to be known as race defiler amongst his people.”

“Do you have any siblings?”

“One sister: Mikasa. One cousin: Eren. An uncle named Kenny, who was living in the flat above ours, the strangest man on earth.” I interrupt myself and lower my gaze. The cigarette keeps burning between my fingers. Eventually I look up. “How detailed should I make it, Herr Schmidt?”

“You tell what you want to tell, no more, no less.”

And so I tell. I tell him from that early summer day in may '33, when I, just back from school, found my mother in our living room, a broken woman, the flat almost empty as well as the drawers, my father who knows were.

I tell him about the slowly changing political climate in my country, something that even I, a dumb and naïve brat back then, noticed, of the Nazi scribbles at the walls which formed my first reading exercises, progressively escalating comments and remarks of those self-titled members of the master race, first partially, then more and more often leading to palpability and raw violence.

I tell him about the feeling of shame, which became my ever present companion in this absurd world in which I grew up, first sensing, later knowing, that my existence was somehow marked, full of flaws, and, eventually, unwished for.

I tell him of a world that grew smaller and more narrow each day, a world that wanted to make us invisible, bit by bit, by banishing us from the general public, only to let us disappear in our physical existence once society had forgotten about us.

I talk about increasing poverty, existential fears, sorrows, needs, all these countless nights, in which I could hear my mother sobbing silently in the room next door, since she didn't know anymore how to feed and clothe us. About the yellow star that graced my chest when I had barely outgrown elementary school, of expropriation, removal, ghettoisation, dirt, misery and death. It's a story about piecewise impoverishment, about the loss of my human dignity until it appeared so far away, so unreal that I started to believe all of this was a naturally given state.

While in the beginning the words only reluctantly leave my lips they soon form a flow I can hardly tame anymore. Pictures force their way outside, become language, are heard, create new pictures and therefore memories.

“When did they deport you?”, Erwin suddenly asks.

“Early '43. We knew that we were supposed to be send to the east in order to work, but nobody believed it – or wanted to. When uncle Kenny left our house one day in December '42 to organise some bread for us, and didn't return, we knew it was about to happen. Do you know this feeling? Something happens and suddenly everything appears crystal clear?”

Erwin nods. “I do”, he whispers.

“It was like that back then. Shortly after we received a letter, summoning us for our deportation. I will never forget how we had to gather at the train station on this terribly cold day. Not even snow wanted to fall, the sky was light blue, bright and absolutely clear.

Mother was only a mere shallow aftertaste of what she'd once been, and I was terribly worried about her. It was the first time in my life I was missing Kenny, the old drunkard, because no matter how shitty the situation was, he never lost his humour. He was an optimist, that alone was ironic enough, and yet he wasn't.”

“How old have you been then?”

“Barely 16. Eren was 14, but tall and strong for his age. Same goes for Mikasa.”

“What happened then?”

“We drove east. They gathered us in some temporary camp. The whole thing was neatly organised, I must say – they didn't want the trains to run half empty, you know? It's not economic.”

“Yes.”

“There was no heater within the wagons, but they were stuffed with people, and therefore quite warm. Not everyone made it, though. For most of the older people the ride itself was enough to finish them. Same goes for little children. One infant kept crying for hours in the most awful way, until it finally fell silent. I did not hear it again.

We arrived at Auschwitz at night. It had been freezing, but the sky was cloudless. There was no moon to be seen, it was pitch black night, thousands of stars formed the witness of our fate.

The wards glared at us with their flashlights, bright, too bright, opening the doors of our train so everyone tumbled out and on the platform. But there was no chaos at all. We all tried to stick together, careful not to lose our luggage in the crowds – there just were so many people around, and in between the usual yelling, the sound of barking dogs, people calling each other's names, crying children somewhere between their parents. An older women fell down not far away from us, and we all helped her back up. We didn't know back then, that, by embarking here, we were no longer humans on their way to their assigned work – we were cattle on its way to the slaughterhouse.

We were separated once we had passed the platform, only Eren stayed with me. They took our luggage away. It happened so fast and casually as important things sometimes occur. We don't assign any meaning to this very moment, yet once we look back at it, we realise the impact those few seconds had on our very own existence.

We received our prisoner uniforms – they were already in a poor condition when we got them -, then our hair was cropped and these numbers carved into our arms.” I let my gaze wander over the black, slightly faded digits. “They marked us”, I add. “Like cattle. Everything I could think of back then was how sad my mother would be about losing her hair. She was very proud of her long, black hair.”

“What happened to you afterwards?”

“Life at camp.” Barely noticeable I shrug. “During my first camp roll call I started to understand that I had ended in the proverbial hell. Several times per day we had to line up and be counted so that the wards could control if we're complete. If someone was missing there was an alarm. You know that these wards took what they wanted whenever they wanted it? The treated us as animals, while they were acting like true pigs themselves. Whenever one of the wards felt like it, they beat us up. A human life had no worth anymore – they could give and take it as they pleased. Has someone ever pressed the barrel of a gun against your temples just to see how you would react?”

I search for his gaze and understand. He knows this feeling.

“We're going to die here, I said to Eren on our first morning. There was no possibility that we would ever leave this place alive. I nodded towards the electric fences that surrounded us. Better I ran off and ended this once and for all, I said.

You can't leave me alone, he told me with an amount of desperateness I had never seen in him before. He's a choleric and energetic boy, acting without thinking, always getting into trouble – even before they'd sent us there. But he'd never shown fear, he just didn't. This morning, though, everything was different and I understood that we had to keep it up. At least until the other died or until we got to know what had happened to Eren's parents, my mother, my sister.

This way the weeks passed. Once a day we were allowed to eat. If we didn't eat, we worked. On average a freshman wouldn't last a three months before the camp had consumed him. Who could not work anymore, disappeared. Who dared to bristle, disappeared. Whoever dared, only slightly, to act like a human being, disappeared. Especially the latter were likely to be shot randomly, because someone who can't be broken makes a nice example for us others.

We should see what would happen if we did not obey.

Soon we were assigned to a retinue that was responsible for building streets outside camp. A textbook example of forced labour, heavy work, the equipment a mess, just as our clothes. We had already lost a lot of weight, Eren and I, and our supply was not good enough as we would have been able to regain any of it. We both were fully aware of the fact that we could not go on like this forever. Around us people dropped like flies. So we started to smuggle in food. Sometimes somebody knew somebody, who again knew somebody else who was bold enough to talk to us during our trips outside. If we'd been caught they'd shot us right away, but what choice did we have? To be shot or to starve, in the end it didn't make a bloody difference.”

“How long had you two been there back then?”

“Only for a couple of months. It was spring – not that we would notice it in camp. Anyhow, back then something happened that was first and outmost responsible for my survival.

We had lined up for the evening call. There were complications – some prisoners had been missing, found, tortured in front of our eyes and, in the end, left lying on the ground, where they were found dead the following morning.

A thin drizzling rain had been covering us, this kind of rain that does not yet form real drops, but rather equals a cloud, sneaking into my collar, into the wide seam of my clothing, making me believe he would freeze to death on the spot.

I had lowered my gaze, careful not to make the slightest move, hoping that I would be overseen in this grey mass of uniforms. One of the camp commanders passed us, accompanied by a Kapo – a member of the camp police. They belonged to us, yet, since they also worked for the SS, they didn't. It was a tall, slender man, thin, but in a way that indicated he had been this way even before his arrival here. His whole manner, his way of walking, moving, gesturing – the commander and he interacted in a way socially equal people do, and that alone was remarkable. But he also appeared kind of familiar, in a strange way, and when he finally passed me and I heard his voice, I understood right away who was standing in front of me. Eren felt the same.”

“Who was it?”

“Nobody less than my vanished uncle Kenny Ackerman himself.” I start laughing, since the irony of said situation is something I can't miss even after all these years. “I'd been wondering for months what had happened to him, not knowing that he was already working his way up where we were destined to join him soon.

Of course he didn't notice us – and even if he did, only passing by he wouldn't have recognised us, with our cropped hair, the wide clothes, the lost weight and shadows underneath our eyes. But I knew who he was, and I also knew that, hidden inside of him, there was the key to our rescue. Kapos usually had a wide social network, since they formed the intersection between organisation, staff and inmates.

With the better ones people tried to remain on good terms, the orally corrupted ones better were avoided. I didn't know which sort he was, but due to his character I chose to consider him a member of the latter group.”

“Why?”

Instead of an answer I only give him a sound of perplexity. I raise my brows, place my fingers on my chin and try to recall the man who had significantly influenced my life since my father's departure. “He was not much of a family man. Broadly speaking, he was not a friend of strings being attached to him in general. He called those bonds between humans 'pitfalls' and considered them abhorrent. Considering rules he only played along his own. Maybe he had seen too much to remain a full fledged optimist, you know? He was a pure cynic, he had even predicted Hitler's seizure of power – and, bitter enough, he had to remain right about it. Therefore I considered him an opportunist. He didn't care for more those imprisoned than he cared for those who ran the place. Principally there was nothing I could hope for from him, but he was our only chance.

I started to inquire for him, secretly, of course. It took a while, but in the end, and over several middlemen, I could contact him. One should not underestimate the difficulties behind this mission. The days we spent outside of the camp, we even took our meals there. When we returned in the evening, welcomed by the orchestra, we were so tired that we could barely walk. To rest was essential for survival. A soldier who sits down should-”

“Should rest”, Erwin finishes the proverb and I nod.

“Yes. One of our plank bed comrades was in touch with him. He arranged a meeting for us. When the temperatures had increased so far that we could call it summer, our paths crossed again, away from the main roads and barracks, hidden behind a shed. He started laughing when he first saw me.”

“He laughed?”

“Yeah.

He'd been wishing for me to grow during his absence, is what he said, but considering these shitty rations around here he'd better be satisfied with me not shrinking.

With these words he approached me, placing his hands on my shoulders – they were the hands of a giant – shaking me in a mixture of friendliness and mockery matching his character.

I should have skipped the haircut, though, he said, since it made me look like an oversized toddler.

I told him that his hairstyle sucked, too, yet the possibilities to choose from had been rather limited on the day of my arrival. Once more he started to laugh. He looked at me in a way fathers eye their sons and didn't seem unsatisfied. Eventually, though, the smile on his lips vanished and he let me go.

Who was with me, he wanted to know, calling me 'son'.

Eren, I replied.

And the others?

Separated from us when we embarked, I said, then shrugged. Thereupon he didn't say anything for quite while, but I could see the tension that had filled his limbs fading. With a loud moan he sank against the next wall, pulling his cap deeper into his face.

I remarked that they would certainly turn up somewhere, sooner or later, as if nothing had happened, since Mikasa was tough. She would take care of Kuchel, my mother. He should rely on that.

He forced himself to smile, but he didn't look at me. Yeah, sure, is what he said.

That's how our secret meetings at night began, when the rest of the camp was already asleep. We kept each other on track, spoke about this and that. I had asked him to find us a different job, since the current one would kill us rather sooner than later. Four men had died since we'd been transferred there, and to my surprise Kenny promised it.

A couple of months passed, and not much apart from the usual stuff happened. From time to time it was sheer luck that Eren, didn't dig his own grave with his hotheaded nature. He just couldn't keep his trap shut and lower his head, and we both know, I suppose, that such people had the highest odds to make it through.

The fact that we didn't know how long would have to stay there demoralised us as well. Nobody had guessed in '43 that everything would be over two years from now.

One day Kenny summoned me to his place. That was unusual of him and had never happened before. Barely back from work I went there right away. I didn't even have the chance to wash my face.

I found Kenny in the company of some 'colleagues' of his, people he sent outside the second I entered the room. The possibility of a book-keeping job had occurred, but only for one of us. It would start the following day. He had already passed my name, from tomorrow on I wouldn't have to go outside anymore.” I hesitate. “You have no idea how unexpectedly this struck me in the face. I even started a fight with him. I couldn't leave Eren behind like that, he'd be lost without me, I thought. Our working together was the only thing that kept him up, that's what I said, apart from his ever lasting anger.

It had been decided, Kenny replied, and his work therefore done. If I'd obey his order or not was my decision, yet I'd have to live with the consequences. We both knew what this meant, and so I left without having achieved anything.

When Eren and I were waiting for sleep to come, I told him the news. He tried not to let anything show, but our conversation soon broke off. The following morning he didn't say goodbye when he left. What should I have done? My hands were tied.

So I started my new work. Summer was almost over. The leaves changed their colour, and more than not it rained, day by day. Temperatures dropped. It was only a matter of time until the first winter would invade camp, and even though I was now working protected from nature's forces, I could not forget Eren.

The vast time of my work I spent copying files and entering numbers into form sheets, wrote down orders, sometimes even letters. It was a work that almost equalled a normal life, at least I imagined it to be like this, since I never had the chance to experience it myself. Being an outcast, being wished dead, that was my normality. From early days on I'd been considered a disgrace for mankind. And I knew that I would pay with my life for the tiniest mistake.

Together with me there worked two more inmates. On the one hand there was Isabel Magnolia, on the other Farlan Church. Both were about my age. Isabel was, just like me, jewish, Farlan was a communist and member of the so called Swingjugend. It didn't take long, and first friendly bonds had manifested between us.

Farlan can easiest be described as someone who could get you anything. From time to time he smuggled the most exotic goods in our office, even a whole package of chocolate once. I have no idea how he'd managed that – he wouldn't say. Apart from that Isabel was Polish, a young, remarkably handsome girl. There was a birthmark shaped like a heart on the back of her hand. Her German was good enough for her duties – she copied drafts of letters – but whenever she swore, and she did that a whole lot, she did it in her mother tongue, causing the one or another laughter at her expense.

Everybody was satisfied with my work, which earned me a certain safety. In the meantime I always tried to get Eren a job amongst us. Whenever I heard that there was a position open, I suggested him; usually though he was declined with some half-hearted and poor excuses. They didn't want jews from the construction troops. Normally they were physically in such a bad condition that they were good for nothing once they arrived at our place. It was only thanks to Kenny that I was even able to get a job there.

We were allowed to use the files. When nobody was watching as well to those which weren't supposed to be read by us. By now I had begun to actively search for Mikasa and my mother, because we hadn't heard from them since the day of our arrival, even though we had constantly asked around. I also searched for Eren's parents. Kenny had refused to help with the search from the beginning, and so it was my responsibility. I couldn't understand him – he had seemed kind of worried when we met for the first time. Around December '43 I finally found the files of my sister and mother. They had been labelled falsely, and therefore they had been archived in the wrong place as well.”

I pause my narration, since the pictures are, even after all these years, still very much alive in me. As if it had only happened yesterday, I see myself kneeling in front of the shelf, inside tense up to the breaking point, carefully listening for the even slightest sound or sudden intruder, always prepared to flee, should someone else enter. Never I would forget the smell of paper back then, of the ink that had been used, the sound of the sheets when I leaved through the files in haste. Nearly I had missed their files, since they were, just as many others, incredibly thin. What had been written there was something I needed to read several times in order to catch the word's full meaning. In the end the files contained barely more than two pages.

“What had been written there?”, Erwin asks reluctantly. I twitch and look at him.

“Only a short certification of their arrival and registration.”

“Anything else?”

“Two death certificates had been added, stating pneumonia as the cause”, I reply in a low voice. “Both pages shared the same date.” I hesitate. “They were in perfect health when we arrived. I suppose they must have been murdered shortly after they'd been separated from us. I suggest that Kenny, with all his connections and knowledge, had known it all along, and therefore didn't participate in the search.”

My voice breaks, and so we fall silent. I lower my gaze and Erwin follows my example. Wordlessly my fingers clench the fabric of my pants, and for a moment I close my eyes to collect myself before I proceed.

“I told him the same night. Looking at it now I know it was a mistake, but it can't be changed.”

“Why?”

“I destroyed him. Mikasa and Eren had always been inseparable. They shared a certain dynamic. Due to his hotheaded temperament Eren always got into trouble by some idiotic, badly thought out action, and it was Mikasa, who usually managed to save him somehow. As it is often the case, Eren had been unable to appreciate her worth back then, during the better days. But now, all at once, he might have realised what he'd lost. His dominant emotion had always been fury. Barely he reacted with sadness to the bad things that happen along the way of life – instead he usually got angry and started yelling or fighting.

On said night it was as if someone had suddenly extinguished the light of life in him. I could see how the will to survive vanished from his eyes from one moment to the other. He was barely a mere shadow of his former self, skin and bones, starving. The cold of the winter was cruel to him as well. All the food I could gather I gave to him, but in the end it just wasn't enough.

One week after I told him about Mikasa's death, he went out for work and did not return. In the evening I sat on our bed and waited for him, something that had never happened during the months before. Eventually I caught someone who worked with him and asked. He didn't want to talk, but after coaxing him a little with my fist he opened his mouth.

I couldn't even be angry. It was so typical of him.”

“What happened?”

“He had distanced himself from the group, apparently to watch a pair of nestling birds. Look at them, he said, nestling in the middle of December. What hopeless undertaking.

He has probably laughed afterwards.

The overseer then ordered him back to the group, but he refused to. Without the slightest sign of fear he turned around and replied the overseer's gaze.

I'm sorry, he said, but I would rather watch the birds, if you don't mind.

Thereupon the overseer took out a gun and shot him during broad daylight.

A lot had happened during our first nine months in camp, but until this very moment I had never felt lost. This changed on that night and the feeling has, since then, not left me. It only got weaker.”

“Maybe it will one day”, Erwin whispers and I nod.

“Yes”, I say, “maybe.”

“What about Eren's parents?”, he suddenly asks. “You mentioned they'd been deported as well?”

I nod. “I found their files shortly after Eren's death. They shared my mother's and Mikasa's fate. By now I know they'd all been sent into the gas right after their arrival. I once heard that sometimes lasted more than thirty minutes until the last tortured voices finally fell silent. Did you know that?”

“I did.” A deeply affected expression shows on his face. For a long time we don't say anything. Instead he eyes his hands, as if they were responsible for all the evil in the world. “So you waited for him on said night?”, he whispers.

“Yes. Deep inside I knew he was dead, but something in me refused to believe it. I hoped he would return. I wished him to have escaped. For two nights I waited for him on our bunk bed, hoping, that the man had made mistaken Eren for somebody else. But when he did not return to the barracks on the third night, I slowly realised that he would never again walk through that door.

I functioned at work as usual. Had I shown any sign of grief I would have gotten into trouble. Nevertheless I might have acted even more taciturn and silent than usual, since Isabel and Farlan soon noticed that something was wrong. She understood without me having to say anything – everyone in camp had already lost someone they loved and were very much familiar with the feelings that came with it. That I stopped mentioning my cousin from one to the other day, that I no longer collected food for him, was enough. They never asked for him again. It had taken not more than a year, and I had lost everyone I had known before my arrival there. Everyone, except Kenny.

For a while I stopped to care what would happen to me. Occasionally I stood not far from the fence and watched the electric wire, mostly during the never ending roll calls, wondering whether it wouldn't be the best to just end it all, just as back then, when I stood there with Eren for the first time. I didn't know why I should keep on living.

It might as well have been visible in my eyes, since soon after Eren's death Farlan took me aside. He gave me a piece of his mind, in the end keeping me from doing something very stupid.

Those who'd give up would let the Nazis win, that's what he told me, and who on earth would want that? If I'd didn't want to live on for my sake, I should do it to take my revenge on those who wished me dead.

Of course he was right. Eventually I understood and the urge to die faded.

A few months later, the temperatures had increased just so much that it stopped freezing during the nights, Isabel disappeared. From one day to the other she stopped coming to work, and all our questions remained unanswered. Nobody seemed to know about her whereabouts. We asked everyone who crossed our path, but nobody could help us. We started to worry for her life, feared that she'd been sent to the gas. Such things happened on a daily basis. I as well have escaped quite a few selections only by sheer luck. It could hit anybody, any day, any time.

We had almost given up hope, when a young girl approached me. I was already on my way out, but she dragged me into a corner where we hid. She asked me whether I was still looking for Isabel, which I of course affirmed right away. She could lead me to her, she proceeded, but it would be dangerous. I didn't mind, I replied, and so she gave me a time and place.

I showed up as promised, at the fence that separated the women's from the men's camp. It was already getting dark, and therefore the guards didn't notice me. I called Isabel's name, once, twice, when suddenly the shape of a woman snuck close to the fence. It was her. We would have fallen into each other's arms, if it weren't for the fence between us. She was close to tears.

What had happened, I insisted to know, we would have thought her dead, all those days without a sign.

They'd transferred her, she replied, into the house of the Commander Pfennig, where from now on she was serving as a maid.

If he was good to her, I asked, and she told me he was, but not in a convincing manner. I could see, even through the darkness, shadows underneath her eyes and on her neck, which I soon identified as bruises.

I should not worry about her, she begged, it was only for the time being, and soon she would return to us. Everything would be just like before. We both knew that this was a lie, but nobody dared to say it out loud.

In the end, they interrupted us. One of the guards had noticed us talking. They had the order of shooting those who approached the fences right away, and therefore we ran off, fearing for our lives. I only saw her one more time.”

“I see”, Erwin says, lowering his gaze in horror.

“The bond between Farlan and me, though, grew stronger with each passing day. We both had lost everyone who had been dear to us. In the end we became our whole world. We created small places of freedom where there were none, snuck out when it was dawning, fixing our eyes at the sky. Whenever we looked up that way, the sky was, in an always new but characteristic way, so beautiful, that we nothing but to stare, no matter if it was day, night, dawn or sunset. Sometimes whole swarms of birds flew over our heads, away, to the horizon and to a goal we'd never know. We dreamed to be a part of them, high up the air, endlessly free. I wondered what had happened to Eren's nestling pair of birds – if they'd made it? Had their offspring survived and went out into the world? I'd loved to know, but a chance to reveal those secrets did not exist.

By then it had already become foreseeable that the war would not last forever – the German victory had receded into a grim distance, even though people only dared to state such suspicions in secret. We wrecked our brains about what we would do should the camp one day be freed. Freedom was no more than an abstract concept for us who had been there for so long. I myself had, after spending my entire childhood losing rights I'd never known, never experienced it in the first place. Would I be able to deal with it? I was lacking formal, institutionalised education. Walls that, in the beginning, had appeared restricting, suddenly felt like a protection from the outside. Thinking about it now, it seems endlessly dumb and naïve – but it's how I felt back then.

Farlan had never given up the idea of joining the communists. To go to Russia one day, or to help to create a communist state somewhere else, was his dream. He was thinking big, it's just how he was, he always had his gaze at some point far behind the horizon, as if he could see the potential futures which were hiding there.

Once we were out of here, he always said, we could walk through every door life offered us – we only needed to know how to open it.

I, though, had given up on dreaming a long time before. The Nazis had taken my youth away from me, my innocence, my hope for better times to come. I was living day by day. To be alive when we were summoned for morning call was enough for me. Dreams were a luxury I could not afford anymore. I couldn't have fulfilled them there anyway. There was no higher education for me, and from most of the jobs jews had been banished. There was no public space left for us, so what should I have dreamed of? Democracy? Equality? Empty words for me, nothing more.

But Farlan did not stop to encourage me. Who had a life-plan wouldn't fall apart, he used to day, since he had a goal. We had to tie ourselves to life, as tightly as possible, violently, if necessary. So I started to listen to myself, during the calls, during work, in the evening sunset underneath the open sky, Farlan at my side.”

“Did you find anything?”

I nod. “I wanted to learn a trade and travel the world. I wanted to educate myself and see places apart from this camp. If destiny wanted it that way this would form my path, at least I told that to myself. I started to carve, you know? Farlan got me a knife, and whenever I found a piece of wood I carved it into form. I was talented, and before I knew it, I was really good. I provided small things to the whole camp, toys for the children, useful tools for the adults.

One day Farlan remarked how nice it would be to have a chess game around. Time wouldn't pass in camp. I agreed and together we started to work. He collected the wood, I carved it into shape. After a couple of weeks of endless search, trickery and secrecy we'd done it. Every figure had an individual look, and the box was closed with a metal hook, just as yours. We always picked the same colours, Farlan and I. We loved them so much, that, in the end, we engraved our initials in the pieces' base, just as people carve their marks into the bark of trees.”

“You have all sorts of surprising talents”, Erwin smiles not far from me.

“That's an exaggeration beyond belief.” I laugh. “But I guess I don't have to mention that we enjoyed the game very much. We played one party after another. It's due to Farlan that I'm able to keep up with you, Herr Schmidt, since I went through a solid basic training.”

“I see.” We grin at each other.

“Of course we had to take care that we didn't lose the game, and therefore we used to carry it with us, day by day, or hid it somewhere. It was one of the very few joys of camp life, and there were plenty of people who would have loved to snatch it away from us.

Within the end of the year there were more and more news of approaching Russians. Since summer they had occasionally sent inmates to other camps. Our own supply situation worsened, until we barely got food anymore. Last new arrivals told us about the tapering conditions outside, of war, bombs, deprivations and losses in the own as well as foreign ranks. Nobody actually said it, but it was filling the air.”

“What exactly?”

“The end, Herr Schmidt. By now the whole world seemed to have been dragged into this mess of a war. We started to suspect that it could not go on like this forever. It did not change much about our lives, though. Some of the responsible guards treated us less terrible than normal, and that alone was proof enough of what was happening outside.

Back then, the week after new year, Farlan got sick. He caught a pneumonia and couldn't leave his bed, while I took over his work. Normally we showed up in the office healthy as well as sick, but this time was different – they let him be. Resting was good for him. After a few days he was already getting better. Farlan was a tough man, you ought to know, he could actually deal with a lot.”

“Actually?”

I nod. “In the end of January we heard we would be evacuated, since the Russians approached us with unbelievable speed. I don't know what they wanted to achieve by it. They probably just didn't want us, who were witnesses of their crimes, to fall into the hands of the enemy. They started to select us inmates. Who was able to march was bundled into groups of several hundreds of people and sent west. A lot also were shot. I could see it from the window of my desk. The sun was shining and it was biting cold. You see, the SS-soldier who supervised us had a radio on his desk, and since he loved music, he used it a lot, day by day. I remember gazing out of the window, watching this bloody mess happening outside, while 'Irgendwo auf der Welt' by Lilian Harvey was playing in the background, covering the screams of my fellow inmates who died underneath my privileged eyes. For a moment I wondered whether this was just a nightmare, if I'd been trapped in a novel by Kafka the entire time. But when would I wake up? Would I ever? Up to the present day I can't listen to this song anymore. It brings back too many memories.”

“Where you scared?”

I raise my brows in surprise. “Scared?”, I whisper and need a few moments to understand his question fully. “I'd long given up such feelings, Herr Schmidt. I was worried about my friend, that's all. Whenever I could I went to see him, even on this 23rd of February.

They're clearing the camp, I said, it was only a matter of time until they'd send us away. Could he walk?

Probably, he remarked and I felt his forehead. His fever was low, but still there, and he was weak – just as we all. Loosely the fabric of his uniform covered his limbs. It was a nice thought, he proceeded, not long until our dreams would become true and freedom ours, he was certain about that.

Carefully I felt for his hand. I took it in mine and held it tightly, emaciated as it was, cold and almost without any life. His face was hollow, once blue eyes tired and empty. We both knew he wouldn't go anywhere.

I playfully teased him, asking why on earth he needed fall sick at the end of this war, where we'd been keeping it up so well during all these months. He asked for my forgiveness and we laughed, in the way people laugh, when the situation can't get any worse. There were inmates screaming in terror outside, soldiers yelling, but we didn't notice them anymore – we had, in the end, gotten used to it.

Then, suddenly, the doors flew open. Three men entered the barrack. Two guards and a Kapo – it was Kenny. I hadn't seen him in weeks.

Right away I pushed Farlan back and covered him with a sheet, as we'd done it so often before during the past few days. I hid him, hoping to gain a little more time this way, until the unavoidable would happen. Until now they had only selected a couple of men from our ranks, but this day was different.

By yelling and force of arms they drove them all out. In the end there were only five people left. I, Farlan – and those three unasked visitors. Of course they noticed me and stepped closer.

First they wanted to know why I hadn't left, but before I could even open my mouth Kenny answered in my place. I can't remember what was spoken. All my thoughts were with Farlan, while I hoped silently they wouldn't notice him. The second guard, though, who wasn't involved in the conversation, eventually saw something. He suddenly stepped closer, grabbed the sheet and pulled it back. Once they saw Farlan, the soldiers burst out into laughter.

Farlan and I exchanged a gaze. The atmosphere changed. The laughing faded, and before I knew what was happening, someone grabbed my collar and tore me from the bed. It happened too fast as if I could have shown any reaction, and so I fell down onto the ground. Split seconds later they kicked me back on my feet. For a moment I believed they would execute me on the spot, but instead, they just yelled at me.

What was the meaning of this, the guard wanted to know. Once more Kenny tried to deescalate the situation, but they forbid him to speak.

Again he asked me the same question, but before I could answer, he clicked his tongue, as if it wasn't relevant any longer. I should get my ass out of there, he said instead, the camp was being evacuated.

When I didn't move, only stared at him with wide eyes, he started to laugh again. It was not a cheerful laughter, it was a laughter of power.

He asked me whether I was deaf.

No, I replied, but I couldn't go. My friend was sick. One, two more days of rest, and he would be strong enough for the march. Until then someone had to stay with him, to make sure he was well. I begged for his mercy. I'd never done this before.

A touching story, the guard replied and turned to his fellow men. Wasn't that a touching story?, he roared and everyone burst into laughter once more. One second later he took out the pistol from the inner pocket of his jacket, pointed it at Farlan and fired.” I raise my hand, my index finger pointing at Erwin. “Just like that. The bullet hit him straight in the head. A tremor caught his body, before he sacked back and stopped moving.”

These are pictures who have carved themselves deep into my soul, probably for as long as I live. Night after night they accompany me, my shadows, my loyal companions.

“Since he had now freed my from my duties, there was nothing left preventing my departure, the guard said. A terrible grin graced his lips and something deep inside of me, something that had only been held together by a few, leftover strings, fell apart.

I attacked him, but before I could reach him, Kenny appeared between us. He put his arms around my chest and dragged me outside, a screaming, crying, raging bundle. In the end he threw me through the open door and into the frozen mud. With the strength of despair I struggled back on my feet and wanted to hurry inside, when he struck me down with his fist.

I should pull myself together, he hissed, and disappear, before he made me. There was an emphasis within his tone that would not allow any backtalk, and before I could open my mouth in order to defend myself, he'd already smashed the door behind him. For a few seconds I looked after him, stared at the wood in front of my face, before I let myself sink into the feeling of misery raging in my chest. I don't know for how long I'd remained there like this. In the end two soldiers pulled me back on my feet and pushed me towards the others. I let it happen. I was too weak to fight back. Just as Eren back then, after Mikasa's death, I suddenly realised that, from now on, I was alone in this world. Should I die now, which was quite certain, there wouldn't be anyone left to remember me. I'd just been devoured by the go-round of the world, just like the others before me.”

“What happened to Kenny?”

“I don't know. It was the last time we met. His files have been destroyed or lost, nobody knows what happened to him. I wonder if he made it out. He was such a person. But maybe he got himself too deep into their world. After the camp had been evacuated he became dispensable to them and they might as well have gotten rid off him right after.”

I need a break. With trembling hands I take out a cigarette and light it. Erwin as well seems to be shaken by my story, since he also asks for another. Tacitly we smoke. Nobody speaks. Only when we both throw the cigarette butts in the jar, I proceed.

“Anything that has happened afterwards feels like a feverish dream to me. The bag that I was allowed to take with me soon was empty, the water frozen. First we went by train, then by foot, day and night we marched, without rest, without pause. Who fell behind or collapsed was shot by the rear. SS-soldiers accompanied us. Not long until corpses seamed out way. Some of them came from the previous tracks. Their bodies were long cold and frozen, just as the ground to our feet.”

“The chess game you mentioned before – did you still have it with you?”

“Yeah. I happened to carry it with me by chance. Farlan had asked me to, since he worried it could be stolen while he was asleep. During these days, though, it was confiscated by two privates. It was my last token of him, and they took it away from me, as if it meant nothing.” I take a deep breath. “It's remarkable how little humanity people can show at times. At one point I lost my strength and sat down in order to rest or to let myself be shot, but somebody apparently pitied me and therefore I stayed alive.”

“You've been spared?”

“So to say. These years were like a lottery, just that only blanks to be drawn. For some strange reason though I ended up picking several winning tickets in a row. It was incredibly unlikely, and yet here I am. I did nothing different then countless others, but while I'm alive they had to die.”

“Who was it who spared your life?” Erwin's blue eyes strike me, searchingly, filled by a boisterous curiosity that seems to stare right into my soul.

“I don't know.” My voice sounds matte. “Back then I was hardly conscious. Everything's a blur, not one clear memory to recall. He gave me a chance to run away from the group, though, to escape into the woods. A couple of days later I ran into the first Russian soldiers. They took me away with them, escorted me to a safe place, offered me food, shelter, clothing. This is how the war ended for me, Herr Schmidt. After the capitulation of Germany I somehow ended up in the British sector and now I'm here.”

“So this is how you survived?”

“Pretty much.”

“But what about Isabel?”

I raise my head. “What about her?”

“You mentioned you only met her one more time. Was it after the war had ended?”

“No”, I reply, “I saw her when the camp was evacuated, but I was only passing by.”

“You didn't talk to her?”

“It have done no good.” I smile, calmly. “I saw her hand sticking out of a pile of corpses, that's all.”

“How did you know it was her?”

“Oh, there was a birthmark on it”, I reply and lower my gaze, “shaped like a heart.”

He nods and for a moment we fall silent.

“You are a very brave man, Levi.”

“I know.” With a sigh I gaze over at the black sea. “Do you now what's the worst? Most of the sick were just left behind. The red army found them four days after, when they freed the camp. If I hadn't tried to protect Farlan – I'd probably saved his life.”

“Does this make you feel guilty?”

“From time to time.”

Erwin opens his mouth, as if he wanted to tell me that it hadn't been my fault, that it had tried my best to save him, but before even one word leaves his lips, he changes his mind and turns away. Just seconds before he had eyed me with unhidden curiosity, but now he doesn't even dare to look at me.

“You seem to be more affected by my story than I am myself”, I whisper, after having watched him this way for a while.

“I do?” He looks as his hands. With a deep sigh he clenches them to fists and lets them sink. In this moment I notice how pale he looks. There is something rumbling deep inside of him, he is restless, I can feel it well. Only the moon lights his white skin which seems to have lost it's rosy colour. From time to time he places the cigarette between his lips, but without detaching his fingers from it, smoking in deep breaths. What is it that is eating him up from inside?, I wonder.

“Are you alright?” Maybe I shouldn't have told him in the first place. But he only nods.

“Yes”, he whispers and clears his throat. “I just doubt that-” His voice breaks.

“What?” I furrow my brows and let my cigarette sink.

Thereupon he struggles for a while. He lets his fingers slide through his hair and falls silent, before he can manage to look at me.

“What do you know about me?”, he asks and his eyes wander back and forth over my face. “You know that I've been in war captivity, that I have a sister and comrades from this time, that once I received a chess set during the last days of war, but what else do you know?”

“Nothing much.” Unable to move I reply his gaze. “We asked for your files, but by now it seems that they've been lost.”

“I see.”

“Yeah. Your sister gave us the necessary formalities, it's known that you were a member of the army, but apart from that we have nothing.”

“And yet you trusted me enough to offer me your deepest thoughts?”

For a moment I think carefully. “Yes”, I reply then, “I think so.”

“Doesn't it bother you?”

“What?”

“Not to know who I am.”

Silently I watch him, and with every passing second in which his words unfold within my heart, my eyes narrow. Eventually I fold my arms in front of my chest. The air is chilly, and the wind growing stronger. The atmosphere is changing. The intimacy of the past hours vanishes within split seconds.

“I know you now”, I say in the end. “The man you've been once is just as dead as our past.”

“But it gave birth to the man who's sitting in front of you now. The one cannot be thought without the other.”

“Maybe.”

“When you look at me – don't you just as well see the soldier in me?”

I remember the stories I had once set together about his past, all those careers I had imagined for him, but suddenly they appear fade and yellowed, like pencil drawings that have been touched too often. We had gotten along so well during the past few weeks, so blindly and intuitively that I had refused to acknowledge, most of the time, on which side he had stood during the war, that he'd been a wheel in this machinery, which could do nothing but to hate and kill.

A strange feeling fills my chest, and I lean back, my eyes filled with terror.

“Now you see him”, Erwin whispers, “and you fear me.”

“No”, I say, but too hastily. We gaze at each other, in a tense, unmoved way, as if the past was suddenly resurrected within us, and at once I can clearly feel it, the abyss that is growing between us. “Should I? I can see guilt in your eyes whenever I look at you, it's driving you insane.” My voice equals a whisper. “Would we have met back then – what would you've done to me, Herr Schmidt?”

“I don't know.” He hesitates and I start to shiver. He is speaking in a low voice, but very calmly – not appropriate considering the situation. “It would have depended on the circumstances”, he says.

“On the circumstances?”

“Yes.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

But fate prevents his answer. The door to the veranda is being opened. I whirl around – and see Petra. She is wearing a thin, white knitted sweater, way too big for her, her arms tightly folded in front of her chest.

“There you are”, she calls in a tone that indicates she's been searching for me for a while now. “We've been looking for you everywhere.” Only now she notices Erwin, who appears as thunderstruck as me, and raises her brows. “Good evening, sir”, she says.

“Good evening.”

“What's going on?”, I call on her.

“I'll tell you later. Come inside, please. And you shouldn't stay up too long, Herr Schmidt, it's already past eleven.”

“Lucky are those who are being taken care of.” He extinguishes his cigarette and raises. “Especially if it comes from such a charming young lady as you.” With a warm, broad smile he passes us. Only seconds later he's disappeared inside. Wordlessly we look after him.

“Have you heard?”, she asks me, suddenly embarrassed, and I feel as if I could see a reddish shimmer on her cheeks.

“Yeah”, I whisper miserly and stand up. “Let's go.”

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

_Sketch by unknown[artist](https://66.media.tumblr.com/539983e98a11db7027c72b13768159c1/tumblr_plhvmtydKx1xbfc9ko1_540.png). Auschwitz, probably 1944._

 


	10. Chapter 10

 

Petra and I only exchange a few words during said night. We work silently next to each other instead, lost in our very own thoughts. Knowing that Erwin's and my nightly coming together is still affecting me, I check the medication bottles of my patients twice while preparing them for the morning, and in fact I can find three pills that somehow made their way there, but shouldn't have.

In the following morning I find myself standing in the laundry room, folding sheets, placing them on a tray. We will bring them upstairs to a huge drawer later, and place them there. Since Petra's still not talking to me I start to suspect that she could be angry, possibly with me. Mentally I review the past few of days, but I can't remember any reason for her fury.

“Do you want to keep pouting or will you finally tell me what the fuck's wrong?”, I eventually burst out while folding the last sheet. My gaze is fixed on her from the corner of eyes. None of her movements stay hidden for me. She slightly presses her lips together and lowers her gaze, then, with a rapid movement, she places the sheet she's been folding on the tray with a slamming sound.

“What were you two talking about yesterday night?”, she asks.

I interrupt my work and raise my brows. “About everything and nothing”, I say reluctantly, “mainly about chess, just as always.”

“I don't believe you.” Her eyes strike mine, as if they could see exactly that I'm not telling the whole truth. “What did you talk about? When I joined you the air out there was thick and heavy. You've been acting funny since then, haven't you noticed? I had to check through all of the pill boxes you prepared for today, because the first one was faulty – just imagine we'd handed them out.”

“It was faulty?”

“You packed twice of the usual dose for Herr Scherbe, Levi. Just think of his poor heart – it would have bursted into thousands of pieces had he swallowed them.”

Shit. A sinking feeling fills my stomach region. My fingertips slide over my forehead and in the end through my hair, before I let my hands sink.

“I'm sorry”, I say reluctantly and raise my shoulders, as if this gesture could excuse my mistake. “It won't happen again.”

“Of course it won't happen again.” She gives away a blaming sound. “Usually you're doing your work as perfect as it could be, almost compulsive.”

“I know.”

“Good.” She takes the tray out into the hallway and I follow her. Together we reach the first floor and shortly after the drawer. “So, what is it?”, she asks, after opening the doors. “What did you talk about?”

“About me.” I hand her the clean sheets and Petra places them inside. “He wanted to know how I made it through the war.”

She pulls a face. “Why should he want to know that?”

“Because he knows that I'm jewish.”

I have barely finished my sentence when the sheet she's been holding slips through her fingers and falls to the ground.

“What?” She sounds outraged. “How is this possible?”

“He noticed the tattoo on my forearm and asked me.”

“Oh, that dirty swine.” With every syllable she sounds more angry. “How can he even dare to ask you? When I'll meet him the next time, I swear I will-”

“It's alright, Petra.”

“No, it's not!” Filled with outrage, she grabs the sheets from the ground and throws them into the drawer. When she closes the doors they slam so loud that I twitch next to her. “He's playing with you, don't you see?”

“Why should he be doing that?”

“Because he's a blood-” She interrupts herself, looks around nervously and continues in a whispering voice: “Because he's a Nazi, that's why.”

“Not more or less than all the others were”, I reply, “at least that's what I think. Why should he waste his time with some random half-jew when he's still sharing the ideology? That doesn't make any sense.”

“Oh Levi”, she sighs, “you're naïve sometimes, you know? He is using you. He is trying to catch your sympathy in order to wash himself clean from all the terrible stuff he's done during the war. What he wants is your absolution so he can present himself as purified, as an upright citizen of this country, that's all. It's plain obvious. Something's been fishy about him from the beginning.”

A half bitter, half amused sound leaves my throat. “You contradict yourself. A man such as you describe him would give nothing about the judgement of someone like me. For them I'm not even a human being, Petra, so there's no reason to listen to me. Let me be, okay? I can pretty much decide myself who's worth my time.”

“That might be. But what do you know about him, huh? Apart from his war captivity and that he's returned this year?”

She has the same tone as Erwin yesterday night. Our conversation fades into silence, but the answer to her question must be written all over my face.

“See?”, she says. “You don't know him. You're hoping that he's innocent, but you _don't_ know.”

“He's being eaten up by his own guilt, that's enough for me.”

“Why do you keep tormenting yourself like this?” She shakes her head, as if she couldn't believe me. “Did they make you hate yourself that much back then?”

“They didn't make me anything”, I reply coldly.

“When I stepped out on the veranda yesterday night, do you know what I felt?”

“What?”

“I felt fear. You were frightened of him, it couldn't be overseen.”

“That's not true.”

“It is! I was tempted to believe it's 1945 again, the way you stared at each other. Why do you keep wasting your time on him?”

“Because I feel sorry for him”, I say as calmly as possible. “At least it was like that in the beginning. The more we conversed the more I got the feeling that we're not so much different from each other. I think we both got into some situations that couldn't be expected, and we both have been hurt, and quite deeply as well. He's struggling more with his fate than I do. Why should I hate someone who himself is his worst enemy?”

“Because he as well is guilty of what happened to you, Levi.”

“And the guilt is driving him insane!”, I suddenly raise my voice and start shouting. “He's different from those who tormented me at camp. He's got nothing of their aura, their nature! Yesterday, yes, I was doubting it for a brief moment, but my intuition has never been wrong.”

“Levi!” She sounds angry. “Don't you _want_ to understand? He was a member of the SS, goddamnit!”

Her words make me drop my guard. “What?”, I struggle to say. The Schutzstaffel, formerly known as SS, served as an elite group of soldiers back then. Someone didn't just _happen_ to be there. It was difficult to get in and was usually done so by choice.

“Come with me.” She grabs my upper arm and wants to pull me away, but I free myself from her grip.

“What's that supposed to mean? How do you know?”

“I need to show you something”, she replies and the hardness fades from her voice. “Please.”

She leads me down the stairs and to the porter's room. Without one word she leaves through the box with today's mail, while I'm watching her with my heart beating heavily.

In the end she turns around and hands me an envelope. It's of cream white colour, graced by the neat handwriting of a woman.

“It's from Herr Schmidt's sister”, Petra says and hands it to me. “Seems as if she'd done some inquiries for us.”

“It's addressed to Dr Zoe”, I mutter and carefully lift the already opened flap of the envelope. The letter itself is resting lightly in my hand, almost as if it was empty. “Has she read it yet?”

“No.” Petra shrugs. “But she will read it soon enough. Just close it once you're done and place it back here. Don't look at me like this. I did it for you.”

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

On that night I do not meet with Erwin for our usual game of chess. Instead I remain in my room, sit down on my narrow bed and read. The letter contains only a few pages, and even though his sister is doing her best to colour the white spots on the map of Erwin's life, she mostly fails to do so. She had asked her brother's former friends and comrades to get all the required information, and as well written to the responsible institutions, but we all knew how it had developed since the war, nobody wanted to talk about it anymore. Certain was only that he'd been captured wearing the clothes of a civilian close to the German border during the last days of war.

The following is a chronological list of the most important duties and dates, details and companies he'd been serving in, and, in the end, the confirmation of Petra's claim.

Even though the letter is so short I need to read it several times to process it with all my senses. Afterwards I place it on the light blue overlay on which I'm sitting with an absent gesture. My gaze is directed towards the wall. Again and again the same thought is running through my mind, then, on the other hand, it falls silent, as if there was a terrible emptiness within myself.

I sleep unwell this night, and the next evening I as well don't show up at the salon to fight the usual party. During most of the time I sit in my room, close to the window and think, while listening to songs from the 30s and 40s playing on the radio. There is an occasional knocking on my door and some patient is asking for my services, but most of the time the night is calm. Petra, kind as usual, takes over most of my work. She tells me that Erwin's been asking for me. I don't know what to reply. All that I know is that I've made a terrible mistake.

It goes that way for a couple of days, before the unavoidable happens and our paths cross again. It's a calm day. Dr Zoe has given me the afternoon off and therefore I'm standing at the beach, not far from the shore. Holding my white sailing shoes in my hand, I let the warm water run over my feet, with every wave that is stretching out for me, filled with desire, unable to get its hold, doomed to try again and again. The sea breeze is roaring in my ears.

“There you are.”

I turn around. Erwin is not standing far behind me. A sweater is covering his shoulders. He's wearing a pair of light brown pants, rolled up over the ankles. Just as I he's carrying his shoes in his hand.

“Herr Schmidt”, I happen to say.

He smiles. “I missed you, Levi. You haven't been to the salon recently.”

“I was busy.”

“Of course you were.” He approaches me and I fight down the impulse to turn away and walk off. Reluctantly I watch him from the corners of my eyes. He looks cheerful, almost happy, nothing compared to the mysterious man who had arrived here only a couple of months ago. Gazing at the horizon, the light reflects itself in his bright, wide awake eyes. From time to time the breeze plays gently with his hair, but he doesn't seem to notice or to care. “I could watch the sea like this for hours, you know?”, he says tenderly. “I feel as if it would only take a ship and enough courage to leave in order to live through endless adventures out there.”

“You're life has been adventurous enough if you ask me”, I say and the smile on his lips broadens.

“Maybe it was. Who knows. When I was a boy, I-”

“Is it true that you've been serving in the SS, Herr Schmidt?”

He falls silent. Slowly he turns at me and his gaze strikes mine. He is searching for contempt, but he won't find it, only careful reluctance, just like on his side. With a deep sigh, as if he'd just lost the most important game, he closes his eyes. He doesn't want to lie to me, I can see it, yet still the truth must be forced outside.

“Yes”, he whispers. His fingers clench the laces of his shoes. “How do you know?”

“Your sister sent us a letter. She might have asked around.”

“What else do you know?”

“That you joined the NSDAP in 1933. Is this also true?”

Again he hesitates. “Yes”, he says.

“So you've been with them right from the start”, I mutter. “How old have you been then?”

“Eighteen.”

I nod. Now we're both staring at the horizon. Nobody dares to look at the other.

“Why did you do that?”

“I could identify with the political concept back then.” He speaks calmly, too calmly, for my taste. “There were a lot of people who thought the same.”

“But not all of them joined.”

“I was young, Levi. Youth doesn't prevent people of committing fooleries. When I grew older my excitement soon faded. In the end it even turned into the opposite. But back then I had already sunken too deep into the system as if I'd been able to get out again just like that. I had lost my way – and in the end I had lost myself, you know?”

“You joined the Wehrmacht, right?”

“Yes.”

“Voluntarily?”

“That as well.”

“Why?”

“I wanted to do the right thing.”

“For whom? For you?”

“For my country.”

“And so you became a soldier?”

“Back then it made sense to me.” He lowers his gaze. “As I mentioned before, I soon distanced myself from the ideology. I wished someone had kept me from joining their ranks, but my family had certain sympathies too, if you know what I mean.”

“Certainly.” My arms folded I let my gaze wander over the sea. The water is reflecting the light of the sinking sun and dazzles me.

“What caused your change of heart?”, I ask eventually and my voice is lacking the friendliness of the past weeks.

“To be honest – this is nothing I enjoy talking about.” He is searching for my gaze, but I don't reply it.

“I told you my story, now it's your turn”, I reply coldly. “You owe me. From the arian master race to a shameful penitent. How is such a thing possible?”

With a sigh he lets his shoes go. Almost without a sound they fall into the sand. He's struggling not to show his emotions, but a slight tremor has taken over his limbs. In the end he crouches down and starts to collect seashells from the ground. Lost in thoughts he throws them into the water. Before we know it they've disappeared.

“They sent me to Poland with the first transport, back then I 1939”, he then says. “We invaded the cities, arranged the infrastructure for those to follow, organized everything necessary. I was still convinced of my activity. I mean, we believed that we've been attacked before, it was a retaliatory strike, not a war of aggression. I was an eager, ardent soldier. My superiors promised me a fast career. For me, who was born into a poor family, that was very attractive. My father was a shoemaker, my mother sewed aprons for loose money. Taking over the family business was not exactly what I'd been dreaming of for the future. I was barely 24 years of age. The world was waiting for me – it was literally waiting.”

“It wasn't waiting, it was trembling in fear”, I whisper. He interrupts his narration, looks at me, but without adding anything to my bitter comment he proceeds:

“It didn't take long, though, and the golden varnish that had covered the ideals of my comrades, began to flake off. While they acted as the arian master race, they incorporated the opposite. Cruelties against the civilians grew more and more, until they, in the end, were nothing but a sad routine. There were executions and random demonstrations of power. They acted as if they owned the world. They firmly believed it to be true, since it had been promised to them and yes, I myself had believed it too. Therefore they took their share. Power is something a person must be able to stand, I think.”

“How do you mean?”

“When you were in Auschwitz – did you meet commanders who could have been called kind or forgiving?”

“I don't remember any.”

“Well, that's what I mean. A man who gains power will show his true face. Only a few can handle it without abuse. After a while I started to question my position. Was that something I wanted to be associated with? Was I participating in acts which I could live with for the rest of my life? I was a soldier, yes, but I wasn't a monster. Therefore I broke with the system I had promised my soul to in youthful excitement years ago. But what should I've done? Refuse to obey? Place the lives of those around me over my own? Maybe. I know that there were people who did just that. I, though, was not such a selfless person. I guess that's one of my biggest flaws. But: If there was a possibility, I acted on my own. I never committed crimes against the civilians.” He smiles. “In the end I even started to learn Polish. From time to time I was invited to their homes and we dined together.”

“That's something I can hardly imagine, to be honest.”

“It barely happened, that's true”, he replies with emphasis, “but it did. A man is more than his uniform, don't you agree? That I didn't make friends within my own ranks this way goes without saying. In the end I asked to be transferred to the eastern front.”

“Why?”

“I talked myself into believing that the people I would encounter there would fight me since they wanted to. Of course I knew that this was not the full truth, but considering my situation it appeared to be the lesser evil. They interpreted my request as a sign of bravery and soon allowed me to leave. Thinking about it now, I think this decision was wrong.”

“How come?”

“Because I left those who needed me to the despotism of my comrades. Had I stayed there less people would have died, there as well as at the front.”

“How many people did you kill?”

“Where? In Poland?”

“Yes. Also at the front.”

“No civilians. Neither in Poland nor up there. But of course soldiers cover their hands with blood, it comes with the job. At one point I stopped counting. Even when I try to remember with all my strength I cannot give you a precise answer. I might as well not remember everyone I killed. It was as normal as getting up in the morning or binding the laces of your shoes. You do it, but it becomes a routine and you won't remember every time. I didn't like it, if that helps you.”

“But you became a soldier by your own choice. You volunteered.”

“I had imagined it to be easier than it was in the end, killing, I mean. I just couldn't excel. Eventually I was wounded and put out of action for a while.”

“When was that?”

“1943.” He clicks his tongue. “Apparently not a good year for both of us.”

I make an agreeing sound, yet without looking at him. My head is heavy, thoughts are running back and forth. “Have you been severely injured?”

“A bullet hit me in the thigh, but left it on the other side without striking the bone, thank god. Had an artery been hit I would have died within minutes, but who am I telling this, you're a professional. This way, though, I spent a couple of weeks far away from the front, not knowing then that I would never return.”

“What happened instead?”

“I was drafted into the Waffen-SS.”

“Just like that?”

“Yes. I know it's unlikely, but in the end of the war this happened occasionally. Someone must have pulled some strings in the background. What happened exactly is something I might never know for sure. Until today I suspect my father behind this manoeuvre, since back then he had become a man of high rank.”

“What were you supposed to do?”

He hesitates. “I was ordered to guard prisoners, basically”, he then mutters.

I shiver. “To guard prisoners?”, I whisper. For a moment I feel as if the ground underneath my feet started to shake. Erwin nods.

“I was assigned to the Wachmannschaften.”

“Did you want to join them?”

“No.”

I search for his gaze and he does not back down.

“So you were in a supervising position in the concentration camps?”

“Among other things, yes.”

“Why did you obey?” It takes me all my strength to fight down the upcoming emotions. “I know that men let themselves be transferred to the front because for the same exact reason.”

“I did not want to repeat the mistake I made in Poland. The prisoners had nothing to fear about me. Of course I acted like everyone else on the surface – harsh, hard and domineering. Of course I yelled at them and humiliated them in front of my comrades. I never touched them, though. The only reason why I did all those things was to secure my position. Do you remember the night when I told you it would have depended on the circumstances how I'd treated you?”

I nod. Of course I remember.

“When nobody looked I treated them just like the humans they were to me. I grew up with their kind, played with them on the streets as a child. They hadn't come this far just to die there. From time to time I gave them extra rations, sent their letters, offered to 'finish' an inmate, just to let it slip afterwards when my superiors were gone.”

“In which camps did you serve?”

“In several. Especially during the last months of war the fluctuation was quite high.”

“Have you been in Auschwitz?”

He nods. It is a slow, a very thoughtful nod. “From late 1944 until its liquidation.”

“I've never seen you there.”

“You weren't in Birkenau, I suppose.”

“No. I was in Monowitz.”

“That's probably the reason.”

“Did you participate in the liquidation?”

“I was a rear-guard in one of the death marches, yes.”

“Why didn't you mention this when you saw my tattoo? When I told you my story?”

A deep sigh leaves his throat and for a long time he falls silent. “I didn't want you to hate me, Levi”, he then says. “You were so good to me, during the whole time, just like that. You remembered me of how it is to feel human, to feel loved and cared for.”

“Did you kill during your service in the camp?”

Once more he falls silent. Eventually he suggests a further nod. His eyes are filled with shame. “Yes.”

“Did you stop counting at some point there, too?”, I say bitterly.

“No.”

“When did you kill?”

“When it couldn't be avoided.”

“When was that exactly? Be honest with me, Schmidt.”

“When someone was dying. When someone had been hurt so severely that nothing could have saved him. When a superior only wounded instead of killed even though he had intended the latter. And eventually also when someone couldn't stand it anymore and asked me for it.” He takes a deep breath. “Not everyone had your resilience, Levi. Some longed to die long before it was over.”

“Why should I believe you?”, it bursts out of me. I feel a fury that can't be controlled. “This sounds way too good, too clean, to be true. Do you know how often I've heard stuff like that before? How often people have told me that they'd known nothing? Of course they did know, and when they didn't know at least they had some strange sort of gut feeling and it wasn't a good one, damnit. And now you come along and dare to tell me that you've been a guard in the concentration camps for the sake of mere kindheartedness? Do you want me to laugh? This is nothing but a terrible joke.”

“Why should I lie to you?”, Erwin replies calmly. His eyes are resting on me, relentlessly but without confidence. Are those tears he's fighting down? He knows that he's just losing me, he's seen it coming, probably the entire time we spent together. It had to come this way, that's what he would say one day, about himself, about me, about us.

“Because you want to save yourself”, I hiss, “you and your self-perception. I can't judge whether you're speaking the truth or not, but I've been there long enough to know that people like you've described them didn't exist there. There was no love, just as well as kind- or forgiveness. Death, torment and misery was everything that waited for us there, nothing else.” For a moment I turn away from him, clenching my hands into fists.

In the end I once more fix my eyes on him. “How could you do this to me? All the weeks we've spent together. All the time in which you made endless efforts to win my trust. How could you treat me in such an impartial manner, so friendly, with such a past? You were a gearwheel in the machine that took away everyone and everything that has ever been dear to me.” With a heavy gesture I turn back the sleeve of my knit-jacket and expose my forearm. “You've seen with your own eyes what these people tried to turn me into! These digits will remember me my entire life that in this country all that's necessary is the numb obedience of some office writers to take away my worth as a human being. That alone and the approval of the silent masses, nothing more.” For a split second my throat feels tight. I turn around and fight back my emotions.

Nobody dares to speak. I raise my head and carefully look him in the eyes.

“Now I can see him”, I whisper with a matte voice. My throat tightens. “Until then he was invisible to me, but now I can see him clearly.”

“Whom?”, Erwin asks. He looks tense. Slowly he raises from his squatting position, blinking away the tears. A lot of things are written all over his face, yet it is better for both of us if he keeps his mouth shut from now on.

“The soldier in you”, I say and lower my gaze. My voice sounds tired, so very, very tired. “I'm sorry. I've enjoyed the evenings with you, but Petra was right. It's no good. I can't do it, you know? After all these years I had believed myself to have come to terms with my past, but apparently I was wrong the entire time. Whether it's true what you presented here to me, or whether you only tried to wash off your guilt is something I can't say for certain. It was someone in your position who fired his gun on my best friend, who sent my sister and mother into the gas chamber right after we'd got out of the trains, who shot my cousin because he dared to speak up for himself, who showed me the literal hell on earth and branded my body forever. Whatever reasons led you there, it won't change a thing. When I look at you I feel as if I'd returned, and I can't do it, I cannot go back, do you hear me? I've been there long enough.”

“A man in my position?”, Erwin whispers. He is not ready to give me up yet.

I nod.

“But a man in my position saved your life, didn't you say that as well?”

“Yes”, I reply. “Or no, I don't know. As I've told you before, I don't remember it well.”

It's enough. I don't want to talk anymore. With a sigh I turn away and towards the sanatorium. Erwin looks after me.

“Where are you going?”, he asks, and I can't overhear the sadness in his voice.

“Back. I pitied you, because you are your worst enemy – but by now I'm not so sure if I can feel that any longer. If you feel the slightest remorse for what you've done here, leave me alone. There are things I need to think about.”

 


	12. Chapter 12

But my thoughts won't stand still and no matter how much I rack my brains about it, it won't help. On the following day I ask Dr Zoe for a meeting in private. Little later Herr Schmidt is assigned to Petra and I apologize for the trouble caused. They tell me not to worry about it. Occasionally, though, Erwin asks for me, at least Petra keeps telling me that, but after a couple of days he apparently understands and gives up.

In the evenings I see him, as always, sitting in the salon, the chess set resting on his knees, and I know that he is searching for my gaze, yet I continue my work silently and avoid to look at him. Our conversation is still rumbling within me. I feel as if I've done a mistake, as if I had betrayed the ghosts of the past with this little friendship, or, even worse, given away their remembrance.

A part of me knows that I'm being too harsh with myself. From time to time there are soldiers amongst our patients, it's just normal. I believe that every human, no matter with what past, has deserved our help if he's in need. Kindness should by my answer to the ongoing brutality in the world outside. Usually I managed it to keep up my professional distance. Why was it different this time? What distinguishes Herr Schmidt from the others?

I can't find an answer to these questions.

Instead everything goes on in the usual manner. People come, people leave. The summer proceeds until I discover the first shy yellow leave at the trees in front of our house one day. The temperatures, mild and sweet during the past months, begin to fall.

We start to avoid each other, Herr Schmidt and I, until we barely see us anymore, two phantoms running away from someone they used to feel connected to; I know he only does it in order to take care of my needs and I appreciate it very much.

Sometimes, when I'm just passing by and our paths cross nevertheless, I stop and watch him, careful not to be noticed. I then try to imagine him back then, just in my age now, dressed in the dark green uniform, that, in retrospective, nobody wanted to have worn. It makes me sad, in a diffuse, hardly comprehensible manner.

Nevertheless he gets better every day. The taciturnity he showed in the beginning has shrivelled away. Instead he can be found more and more often amongst his fellow patients – he never plays chess, even though he constantly carries the box with him. I can see him laugh, his eyes sparkling in cheerfulness. The sound of his voice fills the air. A few months before nobody would have expected him to turn out this way. He appears boyish and pure, the traces of his captivity seem to fade, at least during most days. Not much longer and he would leave us, just as everyone did who was not in need of our help anymore, the development was obvious.

In the meanwhile Petra has gotten herself a boyfriend, I don't know where, it had just happened overnight. Ouro is his name, and even though I only know him from her narrations, he appears to be a prick with a pretentious air surrounding him.

“You're going to meet him tonight?”, I ask and the wind strikes through my hair. We are sitting at our usual place. The sun is already going down, sinking golden-reddish at the horizon, and the black-blue ocean is reflecting its rays like a badly cleaned mirror. We both wear our white knit-jackets, since it has become chilly over the past couple of days. As usual, we smoke.

“He wanted to pick me up after hours”, he remarks with a gaze on the display of her graceful wrist-watch, then shrugs. “I wouldn't be surprised though if he'd forget. He's been so busy lately, forgetting the same stuff over and over again.” She moans. “Tell me one thing, Levi, why do women marry?”

I laugh. “You should probably go and as the other girls, not me.” With these words I place a cigarette between my lips. Silently I watch the sunset and cannot loosen my gaze from it. After all these years the beauty of this scenery still keeps me a prisoner.

“I'm serious”, she goes on, “everyone keeps talking about that he's the one and that I'm soon to be married. I'm already wiping men's butts around here, that's nothing I want to proceed at home.”

“A modern woman”, I remark and give her a meaningful look. It's not the first time I tease her. Nevertheless she blushes. “If he's that annoying, why don't you just get rid of him?”, I go on and cast off some my cigarette's ash. “It's not like you've known each other for a long time.”

“I kind of like him after all.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and suddenly looks quite maidenly. “He's trying and all. Apart from that is the range of which I can select pretty mediocre, and since you will hardly ask me for a rendezvous it's most likely up to me.”

I watch her with furrowed brows. “Would you have liked me to do that?”, I asked in a surprised manner.

“What?”

“To ask you out.”

She blushes even more and turns down her gaze. “No”, she mutters hastily and causes me a thin smile. She reaches into her skirt's pockets and takes out a square-shaped package of whole milk chocolate. “Look, that's what he gave me.”

“But you only like dark chocolate”, I remark drily.

“That's true. But as I have mentioned earlier, he's really trying.” With glowing cheeks she eyes the packaging, then offers me the bar. “Do you want it? I won't eat it, anyway.”

I mutter a thanks and open it. The cigarette still resting between my fingers I take a piece and place it on my tongue. A taste spreads upon it, warm, tender, sweet as childhood days. It's been a very long time since I have perceived such aromas, yet they haven't lost anything of their familiarity. I close the packaging and place it in the pocket of my knit jacket.

“He's not good for you, I believe. The guy looks like someone who's only thinking about himself. You sure he's worth your time?”

“I do not know yet.” She asks for another cigarette and I give her one. “Sometimes people do things even though they know that they cause more harm than good, right?” She gives me a short look from the corner of her eyes.

“Yes”, I mutter.

“How do you feel about it?”

“About what?”

“About Herr Schmidt. You haven't spoken since then, did you?”

“No.”

“He's still inquiring after you. Occasionally.”

“What does he want to know?”

“If you're doing well. I usually tell him then that I think so. At least you appear less nervous than a couple of weeks before.” She takes a deep breath from her cigarette and leans back. “Do you miss him?”

“We had a good connection.”

“That doesn't answer my question.”

I shrug. “Most of the time I don't. Sometimes, though, I do.”

She places her hand on my shoulder and tenderly caresses it a few times. “Well, hang in there a little longer”, she says carefully. “He'll depart the day after tomorrow.”

Suddenly wide awake I look at her. “He's leaving?”

She nods. “Yes. His condition is stable, and his health restored. At least Dr Zoe has nothing against it.”

“Well, good for him.” I extinguish my only half-smoked cigarette in the usual jar. No longer I am interested in the setting sun. Instead a certain restlessness grows inside of me, making it impossible to remain seated. I stand up.

“It's cold. I'll go back inside. See you later”, I mutter and turn away, towards the stairs.

“Later.” She sounds surprised, since normally we wait for each other. Today we don't.

 


	13. Chapter 13

Two days later – it is Monday – there it he usual hustle and bustle. People depart, other move into their rooms for the upcoming weeks and months. We, the staff, are somewhere in the middle, welcome, coordinate and manage them. In between we have an open ear for the sorrows and needs of our patients. On this day Petra is responsible for the formalities of the departing, whereas I take care of getting the rooms in shipshape; at afternoon of the same day they must be available again.

I am carrying a laundry basket made from slender brushwood. Inside: Fresh sheets, linen, spotless white and scenting of soap. I have just taken them from the cellar (the laundry on the first floor is considered the emergency reserve). Since we hung them up to dry not far from the heater the sheets still feel cozy and warm.

With rapid steps I pass the door to the salon, while I try to remember what I still have to get done during this morning, when I stop all of a sudden. Only a couple of meters away, not far from the fireplace, Herr Schmidt is sitting at his usual place. A huge trunk is placed next to his feet, his hands are resting in his lap. He appears very calm. For a moment I feel as if our gazes met and a broad smile appears on his lips.

In the end he stands up and two people, whom I haven't noticed before, pass me and enter the room. Only now I realise that they are his sister and his former comrade, Herr Zacharias and that his smile was not adressed to me. They must have come to bring him home.

Laughing and obviously happy they fly into each other's arms. Even Herr Zacharias, who had always acted calm and taciturn during his previous visits, gently pats his friends shoulder several times. Even if someone had offered me to stay at such a hospital, back then, after the war – there would have been nobody left to come and get me, I think, not without bitterness.

Motionlessly I watch them, until the basket dares to slide out of my hands. Only then I turn around and hurry upstairs.

Even though the room is, now, where Herr Schmidt is no longer living here, appearing strangely empty, I feel as I can still sense his presence. The air is heavy and thick, as it happens often when people have just left minutes before and the scent is still his. I place the basket on one of the chairs and want to begin with my work: Open the windows, remove the sheets from the bed and exchange them with fresh, shake up the cover and pillows, afterwards dust cleaning and sweeping. I don't have much time for sentimentalities; Herr Schmidt's room is not the only one which needs to be cleaned today.

I have barely opened the bedding's buttons when something strikes my gaze. In the middle of the table, carefully arranged, is Herr Schmidt's chess set. For a moment I wonder if he has forgotten it, yet it is most unlikely.

Slowly I let the blanket sink and walk over, carefully eyeing the chess set which has grown so familiar to me during the past months. Still, though, I only now realise that I have, except from the first evening, never really looked at the pieces with the amount of regard their design would have demanded. They're wooden but of high quality, even though the traces of regular usage can't be denied. The colour and texture is uneven, as it can often be seen in handcrafted goods. It's something I failed to notice in the dim light of the fireplace.

Lost in thoughts I reach for the black king. It was his colour, he has always used it, it hadn't taken long and there was no further need to talk about it. I let my fingers slide over the soft wood, yet hesitate when I notice an unevenness that should not be there. Carefully I turn the piece around and look at it. There is a scratch covering the king's back, only hastily fixed with sand paper.

Only hastily fixed with sand paper, I think and furrow my brows. Only hastily fixed with sand paper.

Only hastily-

I turn the piece around and look at its foot.

“IT IS A BEAUTIFUL GAME, ISN'T IT?”, Herr Schmidt says. “FRIENDS OF MINE HANDED IT TO ME DURING THE LAST DAYS OF WAR.” -

 

For one single beat my heart stops working.

 

“EVERY FIGURE HAD AN INDIVIDUAL LOOK”, I SAID, “AND THE BOX WAS CLOSED WITH A METAL HOOK, JUST AS YOURS. WE ALWAYS PICKED THE SAME COLOURS, FARLAN AND I. WE LOVED THEM SO MUCH, THAT, IN THE END, WE ENGRAVED OUR INITIALS IN THE PIECES' FOOT, JUST AS PEOPLE CARVE THEIR MARKS INTO THE BARK OF TREES.” -

 

“No”, I whisper and let the piece drop, randomly reach for the others, turn them around, one after another.

No. No, that cannot be.

Why did I not notice?

I close my eyes.

 

THE DOOR TO THE BARACK IS TOSSED OPEN IN SUCH A HARD MANNER THAT IT MAKES ME TWITCH. THE KNIFE WITH WHICH I HAD WORKED ON MY BLACK KING SLIDES OUT OF MY HANDS AND FALLS TO THE DUSTY GROUND. WITH A DISPLEASING SOUND I RAISE MY HANDS.

“YOU CAN'T JUST BURST IN HERE LIKE THAT, FARLAN”, I GRUMBLE AND PRESENT HIM THE PIECE, “JUST LOOK WHAT YOU'VE DONE.” A HUGE SCRATCH IS COVERING THE BACK. AN ALMOST FLAWLESS MASTER PIECE – RUINED.

“WHAT _I_ HAVE DONE?” HE LAUGHS AND TAKES THE KNIFE FROM THE GROUND. “NEVERMIND. A LITTLE SAND PAPER AND THE DAMAGE IS FORGOTTEN.”

“WHERE ON EARTH AM I SUPPOSED TO GET THAT?”

“LEAVE THAT TO ME.” HE WINKS AT ME. AFTERWARDS HE TAKES THE KING OUT OF MY HANDS, SITS DOWN, AND STARTS TO PRESS THE NIB OF THE KNIFE INTO THE KING'S FOOT.

“WHAT ON EARTH ARE YOU DOING?”, I ASK, BUT HE ONLY LAUGHS AND PROCEEDS. WHEN HE HANDS ME THE FIGURE AND KNIFE BACK, HE HAS LEFT HIS INITIALS IN THE SOFT WOOD.

“THERE YOU GO”, HE GRINS, PATTING MY BACK BEFORE STANDING UP. “LET US SHOW THE WORLD THAT THIS IS OURS, THE PLAY OF TWO-” -

 

“JEWISH BASTARDS, YOU WICKED, GET UP!” THE FRONT OF A RIFLE CRASHES INTO MY RIPS. SOMEBODY IS GRABBING ME UNDER MY ARMS AND PULLS ME ON MY FEET. TWO SS-SOLDIERS ARE STANDING IN FRONT OF ME. ONE OF THEM TURNS AWAY AND APPROACHES SOME FELLOW INMATES NEARBY.

“THEY SHOT HIM.” MY CHEEKS ARE WET OF TEARS, MY MIND EMPTY OF HUNGER AND FEAR, MY VOICE TREMBLING IN AGONY. “FARLAN.” I TURN AROUND AND WANT BACK TO THE BARACK DOOR. STAINS OF FRESHLY SHED BLOOD COVER MY UNIFORM. MY FINGERS SCRAPE OVER THE OLD WOOD. AGAIN AND AGAIN I CALL HIS NAME.

FARLAN.

FARLAN.

FARLAN!

THE REMAINING SS-SOLDIER GRABS MY ARM AND WHIRLS ME AROUND. HE IS AN ARIAN IDEOGRAPH, GOLD BLONDE HAIR UNDERNEATH HIS CAP, EYES, BLUE AS WATER. ALMOST FURIOUS THEY STRIKE MINE.

“DO YOU WANT TO LIVE?”, HE HISSES AT ME AND I NOD. “THEN STOP CRYING AND HURRY.” HE PUSHES ME AWAY, TAKES OUT HIS RIFLE AND FORCES ME TO JOIN THE FLOW OF THOSE APPROACHING THE CAMP'S EXIT. THEY SPEAK OF EVACUATION. IT IS JANUARY '45 AND BITTER COLD. -

 

“WILL YOU STOP WRIGGLING, DAMN IT?” THEY SNATCH THE CHESS SET OUT OF MY HANDS. I AM TOO WEAK TO SHOW ANY RESISTANCE. DAY AND NIGHT WE MARCH, DEATH THE MOST LOYAL COMPANION. “YOU HAVE NO USE FOR IT ANYHOW. SOON EVERYONE WHO'D PLAY WITH YOU WILL BE DEAD, YOURSELF INCLUDED.” THEY LAUGH, BUT THERE IS NO FRIENDLINESS INHERITING THEIR VOICES, IT IS A COLD, HOSTILE LAUGHTER AND I WISH THEM DEAD, THROUGH COLD, THROUGH OUR HANDS, THROUGH THE RUSSIANS, IT'S ALL THE SAME TO ME. -

 

“EAT THIS, COME ON.” A TASTE SPREADS UPON MY TONGUE, WARM, TENDER, SWEET AS CHILDHOOD DAYS. “YOU HAVEN'T COME THIS FAR JUST TO DIE NOW.” THE SOLDIER'S EYES SHINE BLUEISH IN THE LIGHT OF THE FOREST, BLONDE HAIR STICKING OUT UNDERNEATH HIS CAP.

“WHY?”, I ASK, AFTER HANDING HIM BACK HIS BOTTLE. “WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?”

“BECAUSE WE'RE HUMAN.” HE SPEAKS WITH EMPHASIS. “I DIDN'T VOLUNTEER FOR THE SS, YOU HEAR ME? TELL YOUR FRIENDS THAT. I GREW UP WITH YOUR KIND, PLAYED WITH THEM IN THE STREETS AS A-.” -

 

“IT IS A BEAUTIFUL GAME, ISN'T IT?” A SMILE SHOWS ON HERR SCHMIDT'S LIPS. “FRIENDS OF MINE HANDED IT TO ME DURING THE LAST DAYS OF WAR.” -

 

HIS EYES ARE FIXED AT THE HORIZON. “WHEN NOBODY LOOKED I TREATED THEM JUST LIKE THE HUMANS THEY WERE TO ME. I GREW UP WITH THEIR KIND, PLAYED WITH THEM IN THE STREETS AS A CHILD. THEY HADN'T COME THIS FAR JUST TO DIE THERE.” -

 

“BUT A MAN IN MY POSITION SAVED YOUR LIFE, DIDN'T YOU SAY THAT AS WELL?”

“YES”, I REPLY. “OR NO, I DON'T KNOW. AS I'VE TOLD YOU BEFORE, I DON'T REMEMBER IT WELL.” -

 

“THEY HADN'T COME THIS FAR JUST TO DIE THERE.” -

 

“YOU'RE JEWISH.”

“YES. YOU GOT A PROBLEM WITH THAT?” -

 

“DO YOU REMEMBER THE NIGHT WHEN I TOLD YOU IT WOULD HAVE DEPENDED ON THE CIRCUMSTANCES HOW I'D TREATED YOU?” -

 

“THEY HADN'T COME THIS FAR JUST TO DIE THERE.” -

 

“I WAS A SOLDIER.”

“I KNOW.”

“I KILLED PEOPLE.”

“YES.”

“EVEN JEWS, LIKE YOU.” -

 

“THEY HADN'T COME THIS FAR JUST TO DIE THERE.” -

 

“THEY HADN'T COME THIS FAR JUST TO DIE THERE.” -

 

“THEY HADN'T COME THIS FAR JUST TO DIE THERE.” -

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“WHY SHOULD I LIE TO YOU?” -

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“LEVI.” -

 

 

 

 

 

“Levi!”

I whirl around. Or am I being turned? Hands close around my shoulders. A face appears in front of me. Brown eyes, filled with sorrow. Chin long, reddish hair.

“Petra”, I whisper. I feel hot and cold at once.

“You've been screaming terribly”, she says.

Have I? I don't remember.

“I'm sorry”, I mutter. She lets me go and I stumble one step back, until my hips touch the frame of the bed. I feel queasy. I need to sit down.

“What's wrong?”, she wants to know, but I don't answer. Her gaze is directed towards the chess set. The pieces lie scattered all over the ground.

“It was him”, I whisper, again and again. “It was him, all along, it was him.”

“Who was what?” She starts to sound irritated, not understanding what's happening here.

“He was the soldier, back then, in the forest. He sent his comrades off and offered me chocolate. The chess set-” My voice breaks. With a volatile gesture I point at the table. “It is mine, I built it, back then, at camp.”

She looks at me as if I was loosing my mind.

“Are you alright?”, she asks and steps closer. I jump up and forth, away from her.

“Yes. No. I don't know. It's not important.”

“Levi. If it was your game, why does _he_ have it?”

“Two soldiers took it away from be, during the last weeks of war. They gave it to him as a present, I suppose, he mentioned something like that.” I tumble over to the chess set and reach out for the remaining figures on the board. With shaking hands I turn them around. “Look at them, don't you see? These initials, Farlan and I engraved them ourselves.” A wave of emotions is carrying me away. The pieces slip out of my fingers and fall to the ground. I need to support myself on the table. “I was mistaken”, I whisper. “What he said was true.”

It grows silent in this very room. I don't dare to breath. Deep inside of me there is a roaring thunderstorm. Thoughts race up and down my head, only now and then the curtain opens and I can see clearly. I whirl around.

“Has he left already?”, it bursts out of me. Petra keeps staring at me. I jump at her and grab her shoulders. “Has he left?!” She moves, slowly. Her face is very pale, and her hands are trembling.

“I don't know”, she whispers in broken words, as if she needed to concentrate. “They just left the salon. I then heard you scream and hurried upstairs.”

“How long has it been?”

“I don't know.”

“Petra!”

She twitches. I scare her, obviously. “Five minutes, maybe”, she mutters.

Five minutes. I turn around. Five minutes.

“He can't be that far”, I say and run outside, down the stairs, passing staff and patients. They all jump out of my way not without surprise. Never have they seen me in such a rush, me, who is always calm and unapproachable, controlled above all.

I pass the entrance door, hurry down the sone stairs of the estate, pass the narrow path up to the main road. The path itself is hardly paved and only an old wooden sign indicates the existence of our sanatorium. The sides are framed by meadows and shrubberies. I could run like this like forever without getting anywhere.

“WE ARE THE MAGIC MOUNTAIN OF THE NORTH.”

The path leads uphill, then suddenly fades. There is a tiny parking place opening up in front of me, not far from the federal road, in the middle of nowhere, so it seems, not far from the ocean. Blondish blades of grass cover the land, the air tastes like salt. A gust of wind strikes my face, dishevels my hair; I don't care.

Instead I see him, not thirty meters away from me, next to a black Volkswagen, surrounded by his companions. They are just about to get in the car. His hand is closing around the front passenger door's knob. I stop and shout his name. He does not react.

Once more I shout, this time from the top of my lungs:

His first name. Erwin. Erwin, Erwin. ERWIN.

He then hesitates. For a moment nobody dares to move, but then he loosens his hand from the door and turns around. His eyes strike mine. One moment later he gives his sister and friend a sign, leaves them behind and approaches me. Once more I start running and when we reach each other, I bump into him. He catches me, like he caught me back then, it must be our fate. His finger hold my upper arms and there is surprise written all over his face, sudden and honestly, an expression I haven't seen on him before.

“You were right”, I say under breath. My heart is pounding heavily in my chest. “Forgive me for not believing you, you were right, I remember it now, I remember everything.” I stutter some random phrases, interrupt myself again and again, unable to call out what has driven me here and fall silent.

We stare at each other. My feet find their grip again. He lets me go, steps back. When he looks at me like this, he appears shy, as if he could not understand what my sudden appearance here was meaning. He does not dare to believe me yet, but I can see the storm roaring inside his heart, the hope, the fear, the agony.

Something is rustling inside my knit jacket's pocket. First I don't know what that sound is, but then I remember.

“Give me your hand”, I command him.

“But why?”

“Just do it.”

I reach inside the pocket and pull out the package of chocolate. With trembling fingers I break a piece and place it on his palm.

“There”, I say, “take it.”

He first watches the chocolate, then me, and the surprise on his face intensifies. For a brief moment he stares at it. His gaze softens, gradually, and the light returns into his eyes. I feel as if I can see the hint of a smile gracing his lips. “Why are you doing this?”, he asks, but it's a rhetorical question and we both know it.

I start to laugh. “Because we're human”, I say. “Are we not?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo!
> 
> That's it. We're done here. I know, no explicit canon lovey dovey Eruri romance, but if that's enough, feel free to imagine they start dating afterwards *shrug* ;)  
> Thank you very much for reading. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing :) As usual, I'd love to hear your thoughts.  
> This will be it for the next couple of weeks or months. I'm working on something bigger, this time more explicit, historical as usual - but I prefer it do have it completely written down before I start uploading.  
> Can't believe it's already over. I very much liked this fic.
> 
> See you guys around! Have a nice summer!


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